{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_39397/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_39397","id":"gutenberg_39397","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39397","summary":null,"tags":["Category: French Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Category: Short Stories","French fiction -- Translations into English","Short stories"],"text":"ONE OF CLEOPATRA'S NIGHTS\n\nAnd Other Fantastic Romances\n\nby\n\nTHEOPHILE GAUTIER\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPublished by Brentano's\nat Union Square. New York\n1900\n\n\n\nTRANSLATED BY LAFCADIO HEARN\n\n\n\n     _The love that caught strange light from death's own eyes,_\n     _And filled death's lips with fiery words and sighs,_\n       _And, half asleep, let feed from veins of his_\n     _Her close, red, warm snake's-mouth, Egyptian-wise:_\n\n     _And that great night of love more strange than this,_\n     _When she that made the whole world's bale and bliss_\n       _Made king of the whole world's desire a slave_\n     _And killed him in mid-kingdom with a kiss._\n\n                                                         SWINBURNE.\n\n\"_Memorial verses on the death of Th\u00e9ophile Gautier_.\"\n\n\n\n\nTO THE READER\n\n\nThe stories composing this volume have been selected for translation\nfrom the two volumes of romances and tales by Th\u00e9ophile Gautier\nrespectively entitled _Nouvelles_ and _Romans et Contes_. They afford in\nthe original many excellent examples of that peculiar beauty of fancy\nand power of painting with words which made Gautier the most brilliant\nliterary artist of his time. No doubt their warmth of coloring has been\nimpoverished and their fantastic enchantment weakened by the process of\ntransformation into a less voluptuous tongue; yet enough of the original\ncharm remains, we trust, to convey a just idea of the French author's\nrich imaginative power and ornate luxuriance of style.\n\nThe verses of Swinburne referring to the witchery of the novelette which\nopens the volume, and to the peculiarly sweet and strange romance which\nfollows, sufficiently indicate the extraordinary art of these tales. At\nleast three of the stories we have attempted to translate rank among the\nmost remarkable literary productions of the century.\n\nThese little romances are characterized, however, by merits other than\nthose of mere literary workmanship; they are further remarkable for a\nwealth of erudition--picturesque learning, we might say--which often\nlends them an actual arch\u00e6ologic value, like the paintings of some\nscholarly artist, some Alma Tadema, who with fair magic of\ncolor-blending evokes for us eidolons of ages vanished and civilizations\npassed away.\n\nThus one finds in the delightful fantasy of _Arria Marcella_ not only a\ndream of \"Pompeiian Days,\" pictured with an idealistic brilliancy beyond\nthe art of Coomans, but a rich knowledge, likewise, of all that\nfascinating lore gleaned by antiquarian research amid the ashes of the\nsepultured city--a knowledge enriched in no small degree by local study,\nand presented with a descriptive power finely strengthened by personal\nobservation. It is something more than the charming imagination of a\npoetic dreamer which paints for us the blue sea \"unrolling its long\nvolutes of foam\" upon a beach as black and smooth as sifted charcoal;\nthe fissured summit of Vesuvius, out-pouring white threads of smoke from\nits crannies \"as from the orifices of a perfuming pan;\" and the\nfar-purple hills \"with outlines voluptuously undulating, like the hips\nof a woman.\"\n\nAnd throughout these romances one finds the same evidences of\narch\u00e6ologic study, of artistic observation, of imagination fostered by\npicturesque fact. The glory of the Greek kings of Lydia glows goldenly\nagain in the pages of _Le Roi Candaule_; the massive gloom and\nmelancholy weirdness of ancient Egypt is reflected as in a necromancer's\nmirror throughout _Une Nuit de Cl\u00e9op\u00e2tre_. It is in the Egyptian\nfantasies, perhaps, that the author's peculiar descriptive skill appears\nto most advantage; the still fresh hues of the hierophantic paintings,\nthe pictured sarcophagi, and the mummy-gilding seem to meet the reader's\neye with the gratification of their bright contrasts; a faint perfume\nof unknown balm seems to hover over the open pages; and mysterious\nsphinxes appear to look on \"with that undefinable rose-granite smile\nthat mocks our modern wisdom.\"\n\nExcepting _Omphale_ and _La Morte Amoureuse,_ the stories selected for\ntranslation are mostly antique in composition and coloring; the former\nbeing Louis-Quinze, the latter medi\u00e6val rather than aught else. But all\nalike frame some exquisite delineation of young love-fancies; some\nadmirable picture of what Gautier in the _Histoire du Romantisme_ has\nprettily termed \"the graceful _succubi_ that haunt the happy slumbers of\nyouth.\"\n\nAnd what dreamful student of the Beautiful has not been once enamoured\nof an Arria Marcella, and worshipped on the altar of his heart those\nancient gods \"who loved life and youth and beauty and pleasure\"? How\nmany a lover of medi\u00e6val legend has in fancy gladly bartered the blood\nof his veins for some phantom Clarimonde? What true artist has not at\nsome time been haunted by the image of a Nyssia, fairer than all\ndaughters of men, lovelier than all fantasies realized in stone--a\nPygmalion-wrought marble transmuted by divine alchemy to a being of\nopalescent flesh and ichor-throbbing veins?\n\nGautier was an artist in the common acceptation of the term, as well as\na poet and a writer of romance; and in those pleasant fragments of\nautobiography scattered through the _Histoire du Romantisme_ we find his\naverment that at the commencement of the Romantic movement of 1830 he\nwas yet undecided whether to adopt literature or art as a profession;\nbut, finding it \"easier to paint with words than with colors,\" he\nfinally decided upon the pen as his weapon in the new warfare against\n\"the hydra of classicism with its hundred peruked heads.\" As a writer,\nhowever, he remained the artist still. His pages were pictures, his\nsentences touches of color; he learned, indeed, to \"paint with words\" as\nno other writer of the century has done; and created a powerful\nimpression, not only upon the literature of his day, but even, it may be\nsaid, upon the language of his nation.\n\nPossessed of an almost matchless imaginative power, and a sense of\nbeauty as refined as that of an antique sculptor, Gautier so perfects\nhis work as to leave nothing for the imagination of his readers to\ndesire. He insists that they should behold the author's fancy precisely\nas the author himself fancied it with all its details; the position of\nobjects, the effects of light, the disposition of shadow, the material\nof garments, the texture of stuffs, the interstices of stonework, the\ngleam of a lamp upon sharp angles of furniture, the whispering sound of\ntrailing silk, the tone of a voice, the expression of a face--all is\nvisible, audible, tangible. You can find nothing in one of his\npicturesque scenes which has not been treated with a studied accuracy of\nminute detail that leaves no vacancy for the eye to light upon, no\nhiatus for the imagination to supply. This is the art of painting\ncarried to the highest perfection in literature. It is not wonderful\nthat such a man should at times sacrifice style to description; and he\nhas himself acknowledged an occasional abuse of violent coloring.\n\nNaturally, a writer of this kind pays small regard to the demands of\nprudery. His work being that of the artist, he claims the privilege of\nthe sculptor and the painter in delineations of the beautiful. A perfect\nhuman body is to him the most beautiful of objects. He does not seek to\nveil its loveliness with cumbrous drapery; he delights to behold it and\ndepict it in its \"divine nudity;\" he views it with the eyes of the\nCorinthian statuary or the Pompeiian fresco-painter; he idealizes even\nthe ideal of beauty: under his treatment flesh becomes diaphanous, eyes\nare transformed to orbs of prismatic light, features take tints of\ncelestial loveliness. Like the Hellenic sculptor, he is not satisfied\nwith beauty of form alone, but must add a vital glow of delicate\ncoloring to the white limbs and snowy bosom of marble.\n\nIt is the artist, therefore, who must judge of Gautier's creations. To\nthe lovers of the loveliness of the antique world, the lovers of\nphysical beauty and artistic truth, of the charm of youthful dreams and\nyoung passion in its blossoming, of poetic ambitions and the sweet\npantheism that finds all Nature vitalized by the Spirit of the\nBeautiful--to such the first English version of these graceful fantasies\nis offered in the hope that it may not be found wholly unworthy of the\noriginal.\n\nL.H.\n\nNEW ORLEANS, 1882.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nONE OF CLEOPATRA'S NIGHTS\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nNineteen hundred years ago from the date of this writing, a\nmagnificently gilded and painted cangia was descending the Nile as\nrapidly as fifty long, flat oars, which seemed to crawl over the\nfurrowed water like the legs of a gigantic scarab\u00e6us, could impel it.\n\nThis cangia was narrow, long, elevated at both ends in the form of a new\nmoon, elegantly proportioned, and admirably built for speed; the figure\nof a ram's head, surmounted by a golden globe, armed the point of the\nprow, showing that the vessel belonged to some personage of royal\nblood.\n\nIn the centre of the vessel arose a flat-roofed cabin--a sort of _naos_,\nor tent of honor--colored and gilded, ornamented with palm-leaf\nmouldings, and lighted by four little square windows.\n\nTwo chambers, both decorated with hieroglyphic paintings, occupied the\nhorns of the crescent. One of them, the larger, had a second story of\nlesser height built upon it, like the _ch\u00e2teaux gaillards_ of those\nfantastic galleys of the sixteenth century drawn by Della-Bella; the\nother and smaller chamber, which also served as a pilot-house, was\nsurmounted with a triangular pediment.\n\nIn lieu of a rudder, two immense oars, adjusted upon stakes decorated\nwith stripes of paint, which served in place of our modern row-locks,\nextended into the water in rear of the vessel like the webbed feet of a\nswan; heads crowned with _pshents_, and bearing the allegorical horn\nupon their chins, were sculptured upon the handles of these huge oars,\nwhich were man\u0153uvred by the pilot as he stood upon the deck of the\ncabin above.\n\nHe was a swarthy man, tawny as new bronze, with bluish surface gleams\nplaying over his dark skin; long oblique eyes, hair deeply black and\nall plaited into little cords, full lips, high cheek-bones, ears\nstanding out from the skull--the Egyptian type in all its purity. A\nnarrow strip of cotton about his loins, together with five or six\nstrings of glass beads and a few amulets, comprised his whole costume.\n\nHe appeared to be the only one on board the cangia; for the rowers\nbending over their oars, and concealed from view by the gunwales, made\ntheir presence known only through the symmetrical movements of the oars\nthemselves, which spread open alternately on either side of the vessel,\nlike the ribs of a fan, and fell regularly back into the water after a\nshort pause.\n\nNot a breath of air was stirring; and the great triangular sail of the\ncangia, tied up and bound to the lowered mast with a silken cord,\ntestified that all hope of the wind rising had been abandoned.\n\nThe noonday sun shot his arrows perpendicularly from above; the\nashen-hued slime of the river banks reflected the fiery glow; a raw\nlight, glaring and blinding in its intensity, poured down in torrents\nof flame; the azure of the sky whitened in the heat as a metal whitens\nin the furnace; an ardent and lurid fog smoked in the horizon. Not a\ncloud appeared in the sky--a sky mournful and changeless as Eternity.\n\nThe water of the Nile, sluggish and wan, seemed to slumber in its\ncourse, and slowly extend itself in sheets of molten tin. No breath of\nair wrinkled its surface, or bowed down upon their stalks the cups of\nthe lotus-flowers, as rigidly motionless as though sculptured; at long\nintervals the leap of a bechir or fabaka expanding its belly scarcely\ncaused a silvery gleam upon the current; and the oars of the cangia\nseemed with difficulty to tear their way through the fuliginous film of\nthat curdled water. The banks were desolate, a solemn and mighty sadness\nweighed upon this land, which was never aught else than a vast tomb, and\nin which the living appeared to be solely occupied in the work of\nburying the dead. It was an arid sadness, dry as pumice stone, without\nmelancholy, without reverie, without one pearly gray cloud to follow\ntoward the horizon, one secret spring wherein to lave one's dusty feet;\nthe sadness of a sphinx weary of eternally gazing upon the desert, and\nunable to detach herself from the granite socle upon which she has\nsharpened her claws for twenty centuries.\n\nSo profound was the silence that it seemed as though the world had\nbecome dumb, or that the air had lost all power of conveying sound. The\nonly noises which could be heard at intervals were the whisperings and\nstifled \"chuckling\" of the crocodiles, which, enfeebled by the heat,\nwere wallowing among the bullrushes by the river banks; or the sound\nmade by some ibis, which, tired of standing with one leg doubled up\nagainst its stomach, and its head sunk between its shoulders, suddenly\nabandoned its motionless attitude, and, brusquely whipping the blue air\nwith its white wings, flew off to perch upon an obelisk or a palm-tree.\nThe cangia flew like, an arrow over the smooth river-water, leaving\nbehind it a silvery wake which soon disappeared; and only a few\nfoam-bubbles rising to break at the surface of the stream bore testimony\nto the passage of the vessel, then already out of sight.\n\nThe ochre-hued or salmon-colored banks unrolled themselves rapidly, like\nscrolls of papyrus, between the double azure of water and sky so similar\nin tint that the slender tongue of earth which separated them seemed\nlike a causeway stretching over an immense lake, and that it would have\nbeen difficult to determine whether the Nile reflected the sky, or\nwhether the sky reflected the Nile.\n\nThe scene continually changed. At one moment were visible gigantic\npropyl\u00e6a, whose sloping walls, painted with large panels of fantastic\nfigures, were mirrored in the river; pylons with broad-bulging capitals;\nstairways guarded by huge crouching sphinxes, wearing caps with lappets\nof many folds, and crossing their paws of black basalt below their\nsharply projecting breasts; palaces, immeasurably vast, projecting\nagainst the horizon the severe horizontal lines of their entablatures,\nwhere the emblematic globe unfolded its mysterious wings like an eagle's\nvast-extending pinions; temples with enormous columns thick as towers,\non which were limned processions of hieroglyphic figures against a\nbackground of brilliant white--all the monstrosities of that Titanic\narchitecture. Again the eye beheld only land-scapes of desolate\naridity--hills formed of stony fragments from excavations and building\nworks, crumbs of that gigantic debauch of granite which lasted for more\nthan thirty centuries; mountains exfoliated by heat, and mangled and\nstriped with black lines which seemed like the cauterizations of a\nconflagration; hillocks humped and deformed, squatting like the\ncriocephalus of the tombs, and projecting the outlines of their\nmisshapen attitude against the sky-line; expanses of greenish clay,\nreddle, flour-white tufa; and from time to time some steep cliff of dry,\nrose-colored granite, where yawned the black mouths of the stone\nquarries.\n\nThis aridity was wholly unrelieved; no oasis of foliage refreshed the\neye; green seemed to be a color unknown to that nature; only some meagre\npalm-tree, like a vegetable crab, appeared from time to time in the\nhorizon; or a thorny fig-tree brandished its tempered leaves like sword\nblades of bronze; or a carthamus-plant, which had found a little\nmoisture to live upon in the shadow of some fragment of a broken column,\nrelieved the general uniformity with a speck of crimson.\n\nAfter this rapid glance at the aspect of the landscape, let us return to\nthe cangia with its fifty rowers, and, without announcing ourselves,\nenter boldly into the _naos_ of honor.\n\nThe interior was painted white with green arabesques, bands of\nvermilion, and gilt flowers fantastically shaped; an exceedingly fine\nrush matting covered the floor; at the further end stood a little bed,\nsupported upon griffin's feet, having a back resembling that of a modern\nlounge or sofa; a stool with four steps to enable one to climb into bed;\nand (rather an odd luxury according to our ideas of comfort) a sort of\nhemicycle of cedar wood, supported upon a single leg, and designed to\nfit the nape of the neck so as to support the head of the person\nreclining.\n\nUpon this strange pillow reposed a most charming head, one look of\nwhich once caused the loss of half a world; an adorable, a divine head;\nthe head of the most perfect woman that ever lived; the most womanly and\nmost queenly of all women; an admirable type of beauty which the\nimagination of poets could never invest with any new grace, and which\ndreamers will find forever in the depths of their dreams--it is not\nnecessary to name Cleopatra.\n\nBeside her stood her favorite slave Charmion, waving a large fan of ibis\nfeathers; and a young girl was moistening with scented water the little\nreed blinds attached to the windows of the _naos_, so that the air might\nonly enter impregnated with fresh odors.\n\nNear the bed of repose, in a striped vase of alabaster with a slender\nneck and a peculiarly elegant, tapering shape, vaguely recalling the\nform of a heron, was placed a bouquet of lotus-flowers, some of a\ncelestial blue, others of a tender rose-color, like the finger-tips of\nIsis the great goddess.\n\nEither from caprice or policy, Cleopatra did not wear the Greek dress\nthat day. She had just attended a panegyris,[1] and was returning to\nher summer palace still clad in the Egyptian costume she had worn at the\nfestival.\n\nPerhaps our fair readers will feel curious to know how Queen Cleopatra\nwas attired on her return from the Mammisi of Hermonthis whereat were\nworshipped the holy triad of the god Mandou, the goddess Ritho, and\ntheir son, Harphra; luckily we are able to satisfy them in this regard.\n\nFor headdress Queen Cleopatra wore a kind of very light helmet of beaten\ngold, fashioned in the form of the body and wings of the sacred\npartridge. The wings, opening downward like fans, covered the temples,\nand extending below, almost to the neck, left exposed on either side,\nthrough a small aperture, an ear rosier and more delicately curled than\nthe shell whence arose that Venus whom the Egyptians named Athor; the\ntail of the bird occupied that place where our women wear their\nchignons; its body, covered with imbricated feathers, and painted in\nvariegated enamel, concealed the upper part of the head; and its neck,\ngracefully curving forward over the forehead of the wearer, formed\ntogether with its little head a kind of horn-shaped ornament, all\nsparkling with precious stones; a symbolic crest, designed like a tower,\ncompleted this odd but elegant headdress. Hair dark as a starless night\nflowed from beneath this helmet, and streamed in long tresses over the\nfair shoulders whereof the commencement only, alas! was left exposed by\na collarette, or gorget, adorned with many rows of serpentine stones,\nazodrachs, and chrysoberyls; a linen robe diagonally cut--a mist of\nmaterial, of woven air, _ventus textilis_ as Petronius says, undulated\nin vapory whiteness about a lovely body whose outlines it scarcely\nshaded with the softest shading. This robe had half-sleeves, tight at\nthe shoulder, but widening toward the elbows like our _manches-\u00e0-sabot_,\nand permitting a glimpse of an adorable arm and a perfect hand, the arm\nbeing clasped by six golden bracelets, and the hand adorned with a ring\nrepresenting the sacred scarab\u00e6us. A girdle, whose knotted ends hung\ndown in front, confined this free-floating tunic at the waist; a short\ncloak adorned with fringing completed the costume; and, if a few\nbarbarous words will not frighten Parisian ears, we might add that the\nrobe was called _schenti,_ and the short cloak, _calisiris_.\n\nFinally, we may observe that Queen Cleopatra wore very thin, light\nsandals, turned up at the toes, and fastened over the instep, like the\n_Souliers-\u00e0-la-poulaine_ of the medi\u00e6val _chatelaines_.\n\nBut Queen Cleopatra did not wear that air of satisfaction which becomes\na woman conscious of being perfectly beautiful and perfectly well\ndressed. She tossed and turned in her little bed, and her sudden\nmovements momentarily disarranged the folds of her gauzy _conopeum_,\nwhich Charmion as often rearranged with inexhaustible patience, and\nwithout ceasing to wave her fan.\n\n\"This room is stifling,\" said Cleopatra; \"even if Pthah the God of Fire\nestablished his forges in here, he could not make it hotter; the air is\nlike the breath of a furnace!\" And she moistened her lips with the tip\nof her little tongue, and stretched out her hand like a feverish patient\nseeking an absent cup.\n\nCharmion, ever attentive, at once clapped her hands. A black slave\nclothed in a short tunic hanging in folds like an Albanian petticoat,\nand a panther-skin thrown over his shoulders, entered with the\nsuddenness of an apparition; with his left hand balancing a tray laden\nwith cups, and slices of watermelon, and carrying in his right a long\nvase with a spout like a modern teapot.\n\nThe slave filled one of these cups, pouring the liquor into it from a\nconsiderable height with marvellous dexterity, and placed it before the\nqueen. Cleopatra merely touched the beverage with her lips, laid the cup\ndown beside her, and turning upon Charmion her beautiful liquid black\neyes, lustrous with living light, exclaimed:\n\n\"O Charmion, I am weary unto death!\"\n\n\n[1] _Panegyris_; pl., _panegyreis_,--from the Greek [], --signifies the\nmeeting of a whole people to worship at a common sanctuary or\nparticipate in a national religious festival. The assemblies at the\nOlympic, Pythian, Nemean, or Isthmian games were in this sense\n_panegyreis_. See Smith's Dict. Antiq.--(Trans.)\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nCharmion, at once anticipating a confidence, assumed a look of pained\nsympathy, and drew nearer to her mistress.\n\n\"I am horribly weary!\" continued Cleopatra, letting her arms fall like\none utterly discouraged. \"This Egypt crushes, annihilates me; this sky\nwith its implacable azure is sadder than the deep night of Erebus; never\na cloud, never a shadow, and always that red, sanguine sun, which glares\ndown upon you like the eye of a Cyclops. Ah, Charmion, I would give a\npearl for one drop of rain! From the inflamed pupil of that sky of\nbronze no tear has ever yet fallen upon the desolation of this land; it\nis only a vast covering for a tomb--the dome of a necropolis; a sky dead\nand dried up like the mummies it hangs over; it weighs upon my shoulders\nlike an over-heavy mantle; it constrains and terrifies me; it seems to\nme that I could not stand up erect without striking my forehead against\nit. And, moreover, this land is truly an awful land; all things in it\nare gloomy, enigmatic, incomprehensible. Imagination has produced in it\nonly monstrous chimeras and monuments immeasurable; this architecture\nand this art fill me with fear; those colossi, whose stone-entangled\nlimbs compel them to remain eternally sitting with their hands upon\ntheir knees, weary me with their stupid immobility; they trouble my eyes\nand my horizon. When, indeed, shall the giant come who is to take them\nby the hand and relieve them from their long watch of twenty centuries?\nFor even granite itself must grow weary at last! Of what master, then,\ndo they await the coming, to leave their mountain-seats and rise in\ntoken of respect? Of what invisible flock are those huge sphinxes the\nguardians, crouching like dogs on the watch, that they never close their\neyelids, and forever extend their claws in readiness to seize? Why are\ntheir stony eyes so obstinately fixed upon eternity and infinity? What\nweird secret do their firmly locked lips retain within their breasts? On\nthe right hand, on the left, whithersoever one turns, only frightful\nmonsters are visible--dogs with the heads of men; men with the heads of\ndogs; chimeras begotten of hideous couplings in the shadowy depths of\nthe labyrinths; figures of Anubis, Typhon, Osiris; partridges with great\nyellow eyes that seem to pierce through you with their inquisitorial\ngaze, and see beyond and behind you things which one dare not speak\nof--a family of animals and horrible gods with scaly wings, hooked\nbeaks, trenchant claws, ever ready to seize and devour you should you\nventure to cross the threshold of the temple, or lift a corner of the\nveil.\n\n\"Upon the walls, upon the columns, on the ceilings, on the floors, upon\npalaces and temples, in the long passages and the deepest pits of the\nnecropoli, even within the bowels of the earth where light never comes,\nand where the flames of the torches die for want of air, forever and\neverywhere are sculptured and painted interminable hieroglyphics,\ntelling in language unintelligible of things which are no longer known,\nand which belong, doubtless, to the vanished creations of the\npast--prodigious buried works wherein a whole nation was sacrificed to\nwrite the epitaph of one king! Mystery and granite--this is Egypt! Truly\na fair land for a young woman, and a young queen.\n\n\"Menacing and funereal symbols alone meet the eye--the emblems of the\n_pedum,_ the _tau_, allegorical globes, coiling serpents, and the scales\nin which souls are weighed--the Unknown, death, nothingness. In the\nplace of any vegetation only _stel\u00e6_ limned with weird characters;\ninstead of avenues of trees, avenues of granite obelisks; in lieu of\nsoil, vast pavements of granite for which whole mountains could each\nfurnish but one slab; in place of a sky, ceilings of granite--eternity\nmade palpable, a bitter and everlasting sarcasm upon the frailty and\nbrevity of life--stairways built only for the limbs of Titans, which the\nhuman foot cannot ascend save by the aid of ladders; columns that a\nhundred arms cannot encircle; labyrinths in which one might travel for\nyears without discovering the termination--the vertigo of enormity, the\ndrunkenness of the gigantic, the reckless efforts of that pride which\nwould at any cost engrave its name deeply upon the face of the world.\n\n\"And, moreover, Charmion, I tell you a thought haunts me which terrifies\nme. In other lands of the earth, corpses are burned, and their ashes\nsoon mingle with the soil. Here, it is said that the living have no\nother occupation than that of preserving the dead. Potent balms save\nthem from destruction; the remains endure after the soul has evaporated.\nBeneath this people lie twenty peoples; each city stands upon twenty\nlayers of necropoli; each generation which passes away leaves a\npopulation of mummies to a shadowy city. Beneath the father you find the\ngrandfather and the great-grandfather in their gilded and painted boxes,\neven as they were during life; and should you dig down forever, forever\nyou would still find the underlying dead.\n\n\"When I think upon those bandage-swathed myriads--those multitudes of\nparched spectres who fill the sepulchral pits, and who have been there\nfor two thousand years face to face in their own silence, which nothing\never breaks, not even the noise which the graveworms make in crawling,\nand who will be found intact after yet another two thousand years, with\ntheir crocodiles, their cats, their ibises, and all things that lived in\ntheir lifetime--then terrors seize me, and I feel my flesh creep. What\ndo they mutter to each other? For they still have lips, and every ghost\nwould find its body in the same state as when it quitted it, if they\nshould all take the fancy to return.\n\n\"Ah, truly is Egypt a sinister kingdom and little suited to me, the\nlaughter-loving and merry one. Everything in it encloses a mummy; that\nis the heart and the kernel of all things. After a thousand turns you\nmust always end there; the Pyramids themselves hide sarcophagi. What\nnothingness and madness is this! Disembowel the sky with gigantic\ntriangles of stone--you cannot thereby lengthen your corpse an inch. How\ncan one rejoice and live in a land like this, where the only perfume you\ncan respire is the acrid odor of the naphtha and bitumen which boil in\nthe caldrons of the embalmers, where the very flooring of your chamber\nsounds hollow because the corridors of the hypogea and the mortuary pits\nextend even under your alcove? To be the queen of mummies, to have none\nto converse with but statues in constrained and rigid attitudes--this\nis, in truth, a cheerful lot. Again, if I only had some heartfelt\npassion to relieve this melancholy, some interest in life; if I could\nbut love somebody or something; if I were even loved; but I am not.\n\n\"This is why I am weary, Charmion. With love, this grim and arid Egypt\nwould seem to me fairer than even Greece with her ivory gods, her\ntemples of snowy marble, her groves of laurel, and fountains of living\nwater. There I should never dream of the weird face of Anubis and the\nghastly terrors of the cities underground.\"\n\nCharmion smiled incredulously. \"That ought not, surely, to be a source\nof much grief to you, O queen; for every glance of your eyes\ntranspierces hearts, like the golden arrows of Eros himself.\"\n\n\"Can a queen,\" answered Cleopatra, \"ever know whether it is her face or\nher diadem that is loved? The rays of her starry crown dazzle the eyes\nand the heart. Were I to descend from the height of my throne, would I\neven have the celebrity or the popularity of Bacchis or Archianassa, of\nthe first courtesan from Athens or Miletus? A queen is something so far\nremoved from men, so elevated, so widely separated from them, so\nimpossible for them to reach! What presumption dare flatter itself in\nsuch an enterprise? It is not simply a woman, it is an august and sacred\nbeing that has no sex, and that is worshipped kneeling without being\nloved. Who was ever really enamoured of Hera the snowy-armed or Pallas\nof the sea-green eyes? Who ever sought to kiss the silver feet of Thetis\nor the rosy fingers of Aurora? What lover of the divine beauties ever\ntook unto himself wings that he might soar to the golden palaces of\nheaven? Respect and fear chill hearts in our presence, and in order to\nobtain the love of our equals, one must descend into those necropoli of\nwhich I have just been speaking.\"\n\nAlthough she offered no further objection to the arguments of her\nmistress, a vague smile which played about the lips of the handsome\nGreek slave showed that she had little faith in the inviolability of the\nroyal person.\n\n\"Ah,\" continued Cleopatra, \"I wish that something would happen to me,\nsome strange, unexpected adventure. The songs of the poets; the dances\nof the Syrian slaves; the banquets, rose garlanded, and prolonged into\nthe dawn; the nocturnal races; the Laconian dogs; the tame lions; the\nhump-backed dwarfs; the brotherhood of the Inimitables; the combats of\nthe arena; the new dresses; the byssus robes; the clusters of pearls;\nthe perfumes from Asia; the most exquisite of luxuries; the wildest of\nsplendors--nothing any longer gives me pleasure. Everything has become\nindifferent to me, everything is insupportable to me.\"\n\n\"It is easily to be seen,\" muttered Charmion to herself, \"that the queen\nhas not had a lover nor had anyone killed for a whole month.\"\n\nFatigued with so lengthy a tirade, Cleopatra once more took the cup\nplaced beside her, moistened her lips with it, and putting her head\nbeneath her arm, like a dove putting its head under its wing, composed\nherself for slumber as best she could. Charmion unfastened her sandals\nand commenced to gently tickle the soles of her feet with a peacock's\nfeather, and Sleep soon sprinkled his golden dust upon the beautiful\neyes of Ptolemy's sister.\n\nWhile Cleopatra sleeps, let us ascend upon deck and enjoy the glorious\nsunset view. A broad band of violet color, warmed deeply with ruddy\ntints toward the west, occupies all the lower portion of the sky;\nencountering the zone of azure above, the violet shade melts into a\nclear lilac, and fades off through half-rosy tints into the blue\nbeyond; afar, where the sun, red as a buckler fallen from the furnace\nof Vulcan, casts his burning reflection, the deeper shades turn to pale\ncitron hues, and glow with turquoise tints. The water, rippling under\nan oblique beam of light, shines with the dull gleam of the\nquicksilvered side of a mirror, or like a damascened blade. The\nsinuosities of the bank, the reeds, and all objects along the shore are\nbrought out in sharp black relief against the bright glow. By the aid\nof this crepuscular light you may perceive afar off, like a grain of\ndust floating upon quicksilver, a little brown speck trembling in the\nnetwork of luminous ripples. Is it a teal diving, a tortoise lazily\ndrifting with the current, a crocodile raising the tip of his scaly\nsnout above the water to breathe the cooler air of evening, the belly\nof a hippopotamus gleaming amidstream, or perhaps a rock left bare by\nthe falling of the river? For the ancient Opi-Mou, Father of Waters,\nsadly needs to replenish his dry urn from the solstitial rains of the\nMountains of the Moon.\n\nIt is none of these. By the atoms of Osiris so deftly resewn together,\nit is a man, who seems to walk, to skate, upon the water! Now the frail\nbark which sustains him becomes visible, a very nutshell of a boat, a\nhollow fish; three strips of bark fitted together (one for the bottom\nand two for the sides), and strongly fastened at either end by cord well\nsmeared with bitumen. The man stands erect, with one foot on either side\nof this fragile vessel, which he impels with a single oar that also\nserves the purpose of a rudder; and although the royal cangia moves\nrapidly under the efforts of the fifty rowers, the little black bark\nvisibly gains upon it.\n\nCleopatra desired some strange adventure, something wholly unexpected.\nThis little bark which moves so mysteriously seems to us to be conveying\nan adventure, or, at least, an adventurer. Perhaps it contains the hero\nof our story; the thing is not impossible.\n\nAt any rate he was a handsome youth of twenty, with hair so black that\nit seemed to own a tinge of blue, a skin blonde as gold, and a form so\nperfectly proportioned that he might have been taken for a bronze statue\nby Lysippus. Although he had been rowing for a very long time he\nbetrayed no sign of fatigue, and not a single drop of sweat bedewed his\nforehead.\n\nThe sun half sank below the horizon, and against his broken disk figured\nthe dark silhouette of a far distant city, which the eye could not have\ndistinguished but for this accidental effect of light. His radiance soon\nfaded altogether away, and the stars, fair night-flowers of heaven,\nopened their chalices of gold in the azure of the firmament. The royal\ncangia, closely followed by the little bark, stopped before a huge\nmarble stairway, whereof each step supported one of those sphinxes that\nCleopatra so much detested. This was the landing-place of the summer\npalace.\n\nCleopatra, leaning upon Charmion, passed swiftly, like a gleaming\nvision, between a double line of lantern-bearing slaves.\n\nThe youth took from the bottom of his little boat a great lion-skin,\nthrew it across his shoulders, drew the tiny shell upon the beach, and\nwended his way toward the palace.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nWho is this young man, balancing himself upon a fragment of bark, who\ndares follow the royal cangia, and is able to contend in a race of speed\nagainst fifty strong rowers from the land of Kush, all naked to to the\nwaist, and anointed with palm-oil? What secret motive urges him to this\nswift pursuit? That, indeed, is one of the many things we are obliged to\nknow in our character of the intuition-gifted poet, for whose benefit\nall men, and even all women (a much more difficult matter), must have\nin their breasts that little window which Momus of old demanded.\n\nIt is not a very easy thing to find out precisely what a young man from\nthe land of Kemi, who followed the barge of Cleopatra, queen and goddess\nEvergetes, on her return from the Mammisi of Hermonthis two thousand\nyears ago, was then thinking of. But we shall make the effort\nnotwithstanding.\n\nMe\u00efamoun, son of Mandouschopsh, was a youth of strange character;\nnothing by which ordinary minds are affected made any impression upon\nhim. He seemed to belong to some loftier race, and might well have been\nregarded as the offspring of some divine adultery. His glance had the\nsteady brilliancy of a falcon's gaze, and a serene majesty sat on his\nbrow as upon a pedestal of marble; a noble pride curled his upper lip,\nand expanded his nostrils like those of a fiery horse. Although owning a\ngrace of form almost maidenly in its delicacy, and though the bosom of\nthe fair and effeminate god Dionysos was not more softly rounded or\nsmoother than his, yet beneath this soft exterior were hidden sinews of\nsteel and the strength of Hercules--a strange privilege of certain\nantique natures to unite in themselves the beauty of woman with the\nstrength of man.\n\nAs for his complexion, we must acknowledge that it was of a tawny orange\ncolor, a hue little in accordance with our white-and-rose ideas of\nbeauty; but which did not prevent him from being a very charming young\nman, much sought after by all kinds of women--yellow, red,\ncopper-colored, sooty-black, or golden skinned, and even by one fair,\nwhite Greek.\n\nDo not suppose from this that Me\u00efamoun's lot was altogether enviable.\nThe ashes of aged Priam, the very snows of Hippolytus, were not more\ninsensible or more frigid; the young white-robed neophyte preparing for\nthe initiation into the mysteries of Isis led no chaster life; the young\nmaiden benumbed by the icy shadow of her mother was not more shyly pure.\n\nNevertheless, for so coy a youth, the pleasures of Me\u00efamoun were\ncertainly of a singular nature. He would go forth quietly some morning\nwith his little buckler of hippopotamus hide, his _harpe_ or curved\nsword, a triangular bow, and a snake-skin quiver filled with barbed\narrows; then he would ride at a gallop far into the desert, upon his\nslender-limbed, small-headed, wild-maned mare, until he could find some\nlion-tracks. He especially delighted in taking the little lion-cubs from\nunderneath the belly of their mother. In all things he loved the\nperilous or the unachievable. He preferred to walk where it seemed\nimpossible for any human being to obtain a foothold, or to swim in a\nraging torrent, and he had accordingly chosen the neighborhood of the\ncataracts for his bathing place in the Nile. The Abyss called him!\n\nSuch was Me\u00efamoun, son of Mandouschopsh.\n\nFor some time his humors had been growing more savage than ever. During\nwhole months he buried himself in the Ocean of Sands, returning only at\nlong intervals. Vainly would his uneasy mother lean from her terrace and\ngaze anxiously down the long road with tireless eyes. At last, after\nweary waiting, a little whirling cloud of dust would become visible in\nthe horizon, and finally the cloud would open to allow a full view of\nMe\u00efamoun, all covered with dust, riding upon a mare gaunt as a wolf,\nwith red and bloodshot eyes, nostrils trembling, and huge scars along\nher flanks--scars which certainly were not made by spurs.\n\nAfter having hung up in his room some hyena or lion skin, he would start\noff again.\n\nAnd yet no one might have been happier than Me\u00efamoun. He was beloved by\nNephthe, daughter of the priest Afomouthis, and the loveliest woman of\nthe Nome Arsino\u00eftes. Only such a being as Me\u00efamoun could have failed to\nsee that Nephthe had the most charmingly oblique and indescribably\nvoluptuous eyes, a mouth sweetly illuminated by ruddy smiles, little\nteeth of wondrous whiteness and transparency, arms exquisitely round,\nand feet more perfect than the jasper feet of the statue of Isis.\nAssuredly there was not a smaller hand nor longer hair than hers in all\nEgypt. The charms of Nephthe could have been eclipsed only by those of\nCleopatra. But who could dare to dream of loving Cleopatra? Ixion,\nenamoured of Juno, strained only a cloud to his bosom, and must forever\nroll the wheel of his punishment in hell.\n\nIt was Cleopatra whom Me\u00efamoun loved.\n\nHe had at first striven to tame this wild passion; he had wrestled\nfiercely with it; but love cannot be strangled even as a lion is\nstrangled, and the strong skill of the mightiest athlete avails nothing\nin such a contest. The arrow had remained in the wound, and he carried\nit with him everywhere. The radiant and splendid image of Cleopatra,\nwith her golden-pointed diadem and her imperial purple, standing above a\nnation on their knees, illumined his nightly dreams and his waking\nthoughts. Like some imprudent man who has dared to look at the sun and\nforever thereafter beholds an impalpable blot floating before his eyes,\nso Me\u00efamoun ever beheld Cleopatra. Eagles may gaze undazzled at the sun,\nbut what diamond eye can with impunity fix itself upon a beautiful\nwoman, a beautiful queen?\n\nHe commenced at last to spend his life in wandering about the\nneighborhood of the royal dwelling, that he might at least breathe the\nsame air as Cleopatra, that he might sometimes kiss the almost\nimperceptible print of her foot upon the sand (a happiness, alas! rare\nindeed). He attended the sacred festivals and _panegyreis_, striving to\nobtain one beaming glance of her eyes, to catch in passing one stealthy\nglimpse of her loveliness in some of its thousand varied aspects. At\nother moments, filled with sudden shame of this mad life, he gave\nhimself up to the chase with redoubled ardor, and sought by fatigue to\ntame the ardor of his blood and the impetuosity of his desires.\n\nHe had gone to the panegyris of Hermonthis, and, in the vague hope of\nbeholding the queen again for an instant as she disembarked at the\nsummer palace, had followed her cangia in his boat--little heeding the\nsharp stings of the sun--through a heat intense enough to make the\npanting sphinxes melt in lava-sweat upon their reddened pedestals.\n\nAnd then he felt that the supreme moment was nigh, that the decisive\ninstant of his life was at hand, and that he could not die with his\nsecret in his breast.\n\nIt is a strange situation truly to find one-self enamoured of a queen.\nIt is as though one loved a star; yet she, the star, comes forth nightly\nto sparkle in her place in heaven. It is a kind of mysterious\nrendezvous. You may find her again, you may see her; she is not offended\nat your gaze. Oh, misery! to be poor, unknown, obscure, seated at the\nvery foot of the ladder, and to feel one's heart breaking with love for\nsomething glittering, solemn, and magnificent--for a woman whose meanest\nfemale attendant would scorn you!--to gaze fixedly and fatefully upon\none who never sees you, who never will see you; one to whom you are\nno more than a ripple on the sea of humanity, in nowise differing\nfrom the other ripples, and who might a hundred times encounter you\nwithout once recognizing you; to have no reason to offer should an\nopportunity for addressing her present itself in excuse for such mad\naudacity--neither poetical talent, nor great genius, nor any superhuman\nqualification--nothing but love; and to be able to offer in exchange\nfor beauty, nobility, power, and all imaginable splendor only one's\npassion and one's youth--rare offerings, forsooth!\n\nSuch were the thoughts which overwhelmed Me\u00efamoun. Lying upon the sand,\nsupporting his chin on his palms, he permitted himself to be lifted and\nborne away by the inexhaustible current of reverie; he sketched out a\nthousand projects, each madder than the last. He felt convinced that he\nwas seeking after the unattainable, but he lacked the courage to frankly\nrenounce his undertaking, and a perfidious hope came to whisper some\nlying promises in his ear.\n\n\"Athor, mighty goddess,\" he murmured in a deep voice, \"what evil have I\ndone against thee that I should be made thus miserable? Art thou\navenging thyself for my disdain of Nephthe, daughter of the priest\nAfomouthis? Hast thou afflicted me thus for having rejected the love of\nLamia, the Athenian hetaira, or of Flora, the Roman courtesan? Is it my\nfault that my heart should be sensible only to the matchless beauty of\nthy rival, Cleopatra? Why hast thou wounded my soul with the envenomed\narrow of unattainable love? What sacrifice, what offerings dost thou\ndesire? Must I erect to thee a chapel of the rosy marble of Syene with\ncolumns crowned by gilded capitals, a ceiling all of one block, and\nhieroglyphics deeply sculptured by the best workmen of Memphis and of\nThebes? Answer me.\"\n\nLike all gods or goddesses thus invoked, Athor answered not a word, and\nMe\u00efamoun resolved upon a desperate expedient.\n\nCleopatra, on her part, likewise invoked the goddess Athor. She prayed\nfor a new pleasure, for some fresh sensation. As she languidly reclined\nupon her couch she thought to herself that the number of the senses was\nsadly limited, that the most exquisite refinements of delight soon\nyielded to satiety, and that it was really no small task for a queen to\nfind means of occupying her time. To test new poisons upon slaves; to\nmake men fight with tigers, or gladiators with each other; to drink\npearls dissolved; to swallow the wealth of a whole province all these\nthings had become commonplace! and insipid.\n\nCharmion was fairly at her wit's end, and knew not what to do for her\nmistress.\n\nSuddenly a whistling sound was heard, and an arrow buried itself,\nquivering, in the cedar wainscoting of the wall.\n\nCleopatra well-nigh fainted with terror. Charmion ran to the window,\nleaned out, and beheld only a flake of foam on the surface of the river.\nA scroll of papyrus encircled the wood of the arrow. It bore only these\nwords, written in Ph\u0153nician characters, \"I love you!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n\"I love you,\" repeated Cleopatra, making the serpent-coiling strip of\npapyrus writhe between her delicate white fingers. \"Those, are the words\nI longed for. What intelligent spirit, what invisible genius has thus so\nfully comprehended my desire?\"\n\nAnd thoroughly aroused from her languid torpor, she sprang out of bed\nwith the agility of a cat which has scented a mouse, placed her little\nivory feet in her embroidered _tatbebs_, threw a byssus tunic over her\nshoulders, and ran to the window from which Charmion was still gazing.\n\nThe night was clear and calm. The risen moon outlined with huge angles\nof light and shadow the architectural masses of the palace, which stood\nout in strong relief against a background of bluish transparency; and\nthe waters of the river, wherein her reflection lengthened into a\nshining column, were frosted with silvery ripples. A gentle breeze, such\nas might have been mistaken for the respiration of the slumbering\nsphinxes, quivered among the reeds and shook the azure bells of the\nlotus flowers; the cables of the vessels moored to the Nile's banks\ngroaned feebly, and the rippling tide moaned upon the shore like a dove\nlamenting for its mate. A vague perfume of vegetation, sweeter than that\nof the aromatics burned in the _anschir_ of the priests of Anubis,\nfloated into the chamber. It was one of those enchanted nights of the\nOrient, which are more splendid than our fairest days; for our sun can\nill compare with that Oriental moon.\n\n\"Do you not see far over there, almost in the middle of the river, the\nhead of a man swimming? See, he crosses that track of light, and passes\ninto the shadow beyond! He is already out of sight!\" And, supporting\nherself upon Charmion's shoulder, she leaned out, with half of her fair\nbody beyond the sill of the window, in the effort to catch another\nglimpse of the mysterious swimmer; but a grove of Nile acacias,\ndhoum-palms, and sayals flung its deep shadow upon the river in that\ndirection, and protected the flight of the daring fugitive. If Me\u00efamoun\nhad but had the courtesy to look back, he might have beheld Cleopatra,\nthe sidereal queen, eagerly seeking him through the night gloom--he, the\npoor obscure Egyptian, the miserable lion-hunter.\n\n\"Charmion, Charmion, send hither Phrehipephbour, the chief of the\nrowers, and have two boats despatched in pursuit of that man!\" cried\nCleopatra, whose curiosity was excited to the highest pitch.\n\nPhrehipephbour appeared, a man of the race of Nahasi, with large hands\nand muscular arms, wearing a red cap not unlike a Phrygian helmet in\nform, and clad only in a pair of narrow drawers diagonally striped with\nwhite and blue. His huge torso, entirely nude, black and polished like a\nglobe of jet, shone under the lamplight. He received the commands of the\nqueen and instantly retired to execute them.\n\nTwo long, narrow boats, so light that the least inattention to\nequilibrium would capsize them, were soon cleaving the waters of the\nNile with hissing rapidity under the efforts of the twenty vigorous\nrowers, but the pursuit was all in vain. After searching the river banks\nin every direction, and carefully exploring every patch of reeds,\nPhrehipephbour returned to the palace, having only succeeded in putting\nto flight some solitary heron which had been sleeping on one leg, or in\ntroubling the digestion of some terrified crocodile.\n\nSo intense was the vexation of Cleopatra at being thus foiled, that she\nfelt a strong inclination to condemn Phrehipephbour either to the wild\nbeasts or to the hardest labor at the grindstone. Happily, Charmion\ninterceded for the trembling unfortunate, who turned pale with fear,\ndespite his black skin. It was the first time in Cleopatra's life that\none of her desires had not been gratified as soon as expressed, and she\nexperienced, in consequence, a kind of uneasy surprise; a first doubt,\nas it were, of her own omnipotence.\n\nShe, Cleopatra, wife and sister of Ptolemy--she who had been proclaimed\ngoddess Evergetes, living queen of the regions Above and Below, Eye of\nLight, Chosen of the Sun (as may still be read within the cartouches\nsculptured on the walls of the temples)--she to find an obstacle in her\npath, to have wished aught that failed of accomplishment, to have spoken\nand not been obeyed! As well be the wife of some wretched Paraschistes,\nsome corpse-cutter, and melt natron in a caldron! It was monstrous,\npreposterous! and none but the most gentle and clement of queens could\nhave refrained from crucifying that miserable Phrehipephbour.\n\nYou wished for some adventure, something strange and unexpected. Your\nwish has been gratified. You find that your kingdom is not so dead as\nyou deemed it. It was not the stony arm of a statue which shot that\narrow; it was not from a mummy's heart that came those three words which\nhave moved even you--you who smilingly watched your poisoned slaves\ndashing their heads and beating their feet upon your beautiful mosaic\nand porphyry pavements in the convulsions of death-agony; you who even\napplauded the tiger which boldly buried its muzzle in the flank of some\nvanquished gladiator.\n\nYou could obtain all else you might wish for--chariots of silver,\nstarred with emeralds; griffin-quadriger\u00e6; tunics of purple\nthrice-dyed; mirrors of molten steel, so clear that you might find the\ncharms of your loveliness faithfully copied in them; robes from the land\nof Serica, so fine and subtly light that they could be drawn through the\nring worn upon your little finger; Orient pearls of wondrous color; cups\nwrought by Myron or Lysippus; Indian paroquets that speak like\npoets--all things else you could obtain, even should you ask for the\nCestus of Venus or the _pshent_ of Isis, but most certainly you cannot\nthis night capture the man who shot the arrow which still quivers in\nthe cedar wood of your couch.\n\nThe task of the slaves who must dress you to-morrow will not be a\ngrateful one. They will hardly escape with blows. The bosom of the\nunskilful waiting-maid will be apt to prove a cushion for the golden\npins of the toilette, and the poor hairdresser will run great risk of\nbeing suspended by her feet from the ceiling.\n\n\"Who could have had the audacity to send me this avowal upon the shaft\nof an arrow? Could it have been the Nomarch Amoun-Ra who fancies himself\nhandsomer than the Apollo of the Greeks? What think you, Charmion? Or\nperhaps Che\u00e2psiro, commander of Hermothybia, who is so boastful of his\nconquests in the land of Kush? Or is it not more likely to have been\nyoung Sextus, that Roman debauchee who paints his face, lisps in\nspeaking, and wears sleeves in the fashion of the Persians?\"\n\n\"Queen, it was none of those. Though you are indeed the fairest of\nwomen, those men only natter you; they do not love you. The Nomarch\nAmoun-Ra has chosen himself an idol to which he will be forever\nfaithful, and that is his own person. The warrior Che\u00e2psiro thinks of\nnothing save the pleasure of recounting his victories. As for Sextus, he\nis so seriously occupied with the preparation of a new cosmetic that he\ncannot dream of anything else. Besides, he had just purchased some\nLaconian dresses, a number of yellow tunics embroidered with gold, and\nsome Asiatic children which absorb all his time. Not one of those fine\nlords would risk his head in so daring and dangerous an undertaking;\nthey do not love you well enough for that.\n\n\"Yesterday, in your cangia, you said that men dared not fix their\ndazzled eyes upon you; that they knew only how to turn pale in your\npresence, to fall at your feet and supplicate your mercy; and that your\nsole remaining resource would be to awake some ancient, bitumen-perfumed\nPharaoh from his gilded coffin. Now here is an ardent and youthful heart\nthat loves you. What will you do with it?\"\n\nCleopatra that night sought slumber in vain. She tossed feverishly upon\nher couch, and long and vainly invoked Morpheus, the brother of Death.\nShe incessantly repeated that she was the most unhappy of queens, that\nevery one sought to persecute her, and that her life had become\ninsupportable; woeful lamentations which had little effect upon\nCharmion, although she pretended to sympathize with them.\n\nLet us for a while leave Cleopatra to seek fugitive sleep, and direct\nher suspicions successively upon each noble of the court. Let us return\nto Me\u00efamoun, and as we are much more sagacious than Phrehipephbour,\nchief of the rowers, we shall have no difficulty in finding him.\n\nTerrified at his own hardihood, Me\u00efamoun had thrown himself into the\nNile, and had succeeded in swimming the current and gaining the little\ngrove of dhoum-palms before Phrehipephbour had even launched the two\nboats in pursuit of him.\n\nWhen he had recovered breath, and brushed back his long black locks, all\ndamp with river foam, behind his ears, he began to feel more at ease,\nmore inwardly calm. Cleopatra possessed something which had come from\nhim; some sort of communication was now established between them.\nCleopatra was thinking of him, Me\u00efamoun. Perhaps that thought might be\none of wrath; but then he had at least been able to awake some feeling\nwithin her, whether of fear, anger, or pity. He had forced her to the\nconsciousness of his existence. It was true that he had forgotten to\ninscribe his name upon the papyrus scroll, but what more of him could\nthe queen have learned from the inscription, _Me\u00efamoun, Son of\nMandouschopsh_? In her eyes the slave and the monarch were equal. A\ngoddess in choosing a peasant for her lover stoops no lower than in\nchoosing a patrician or a king. The Immortals from a height so lofty can\nbehold only love in the man of their choice.\n\nThe thought which had weighed upon his breast like the knee of a\ncolossus of brass had at last departed. It had traversed the air; it had\neven reached the queen herself, the apex of the triangle, the\ninaccessible summit. It had aroused curiosity in that impassive heart; a\nprodigious advance, truly, toward success.\n\nMe\u00efamoun, indeed, never suspected that he had so thoroughly succeeded in\nthis wise, but he felt more tranquil; for he had sworn unto himself by\nthat mystic Bari who guides the souls of the dead to Amenthi, by the\nsacred birds Bermou and Ghenghen, by Typhon and by Osiris, and by all\nthings awful in Egyptian mythology, that he should be the accepted lover\nof Cleopatra, though it were but for a single night, though for only a\nsingle hour, though it should cost him his life and even his very soul.\n\nIf we must explain how he had fallen so deeply in love with a woman whom\nhe had beheld only from afar off, and to whom he had hardly dared to\nraise his eyes--even he who was wont to gaze fearlessly into the yellow\neyes of the lion--or how the tiny seed of love, chance-fallen upon his\nheart, had grown there so rapidly and extended its roots so deeply, we\ncan answer only that it is a mystery which we are unable to explain. We\nhave already said of Me\u00efamoun,--The Abyss called him.\n\nOnce assured that Phrehipephbour had returned with his rowers, he again\nthrew himself into the current and once more swam toward the palace of\nCleopatra, whose lamp still shone through the window curtains like a\npainted star. Never did Leander swim with more courage and vigor toward\nthe tower of Sestos; yet for Me\u00efamoun no Hero was waiting, ready to pour\nvials of perfume upon his head to dissipate the briny odors of the sea\nand banish the sharp kisses of the storm.\n\nA strong blow from some keen lance or _harpe_ was certainly the worst he\nhad to fear, and in truth he had but little fear of such things.\n\nHe swam close under the walls of the palace, which bathed its marble\nfeet in the river's depths, and paused an instant before a submerged\narchway into which the water rushed downward in eddying whirls. Twice,\nthrice he plunged into the vortex unsuccessfully. At last, with better\nluck, he found the opening and disappeared.\n\nThis archway was the opening to a vaulted canal which conducted the\nwaters of the Nile into the baths of Cleopatra.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nCleopatra found no rest until morning, at the hour when wandering dreams\nreenter the Ivory Gate. Amid the illusions of sleep she beheld all kinds\nof lovers swimming rivers and scaling walls in order to come to her,\nand, through the vague souvenirs of the night before, her dreams\nappeared fairly riddled with arrows bearing declarations of love.\nStarting nervously from time to time in her troubled slumbers, she\nstruck her little feet unconsciously against the bosom of Charmion, who\nlay across the foot of the bed to serve her as a cushion.\n\nWhen she awoke, a merry sunbeam was playing through the window curtain,\nwhose woof it penetrated with a thousand tiny points of light, and\nthence came familiarly to the bed, flitting like a golden butterfly over\nher lovely shoulders, which it lightly touched in passing by with a\nluminous kiss. Happy sunbeam, which the gods might well have envied.\n\nIn a faint voice, like that of a sick child, Cleopatra asked to be\nlifted out of bed. Two of her women raised her in their arms and gently\nlaid her on a tiger-skin stretched upon the floor, of which the eyes\nwere formed of carbuncles and the claws of gold. Charmion wrapped her in\n_calasiris_ of linen whiter than milk, confined her hair in a net of\nwoven silver threads, tied to her little feet cork _tatbebs_ upon the\nsoles of which were painted, in token of contempt, two grotesque\nfigures, representing two men of the races of Nahasi and Nahmou, bound\nhand and foot, so that Cleopatra literally deserved the epithet,\n\"Conculcatrix of Nations,\"[1] which the royal cartouche inscriptions\nbestow upon her.\n\nIt was the hour for the bath. Cleopatra went to bathe, accompanied by\nher women.\n\nThe baths of Cleopatra were built in the midst of immense gardens filled\nwith mimosas, aloes, carob-trees, citron-trees, and Persian apple-trees,\nwhose luxuriant freshness afforded a delicious contrast to the arid\nappearance of the neighboring vegetation. There, too, vast terraces\nuplifted masses of verdant foliage, and enabled flowers to climb almost\nto the very sky upon gigantic stairways of rose-colored granite; vases\nof Pentelic marble bloomed at the end of each step like huge\nlily-flowers, and the plants they contained seemed only their pistils;\nchimeras caressed into form by the chisels of the most skilful Greek\nsculptors, and less stern of aspect than the Egyptian sphinxes, with\ntheir grim mien and moody attitudes, softly extended their limbs upon\nthe flower-strewn turf, like shapely white leverettes upon a\ndrawing-room carpet. These were charming feminine figures, with finely\nchiselled nostrils, smooth brows, small mouths, delicately dimpled arms,\nbreasts fair-rounded and daintily formed; wearing earrings, necklaces,\nand all the trinkets suggested by adorable caprice; whose bodies\nterminated in bifurcated fishes' tails, like the women described by\nHorace, or extended into birds' wings, or rounded into lions' haunches,\nor blended into volutes of foliage, according to the fancies of the\nartist or in conformity to the architectural position chosen. A double\nrow of these delightful monsters lined the alley which led from the\npalace to the bathing halls.\n\nAt the end of this alley was a huge fountain-basin, approached by four\nporphyry stairways. Through the transparent depths of the diamond-clear\nwater the steps could be seen descending to the bottom of the basin,\nwhich was strewn with gold-dust in lieu of sand. Here figures of women\nterminating in pedestals like Caryatides[2] spurted from their breasts\nslender jets of perfumed water, which fell into the basin in silvery\ndew, pitting the clear watery mirror with wrinkle-creating drops. In\naddition to this task these Caryatides had likewise that of supporting\nupon their heads an entablature decorated with Nereids and Tritons in\nbas-relief, and furnished with rings of bronze to which the silken cords\nof a velarium might be attached. From the portico was visible an\nextending expanse of freshly humid, bluish-green verdure and cool shade,\na fragment of the Vale of Tempe transported to Egypt. The famous gardens\nof Semiramis would not have borne comparison with these.\n\nWe will not pause to describe the seven or eight other halls of various\ntemperature, with their hot and cold vapors, perfume boxes, cosmetics,\noils, pumice stone, gloves of woven horsehair, and all the refinements\nof the antique balneatory art brought to the highest pitch of voluptuous\nperfection.\n\nHither came Cleopatra, leaning with one hand upon the shoulder of\nCharmion. She had taken at least thirty steps all by herself. Mighty\neffort, enormous fatigue! A tender tint of rose commenced to suffuse the\ntransparent skin of her cheeks, refreshing their passionate pallor; a\nblue network of veins relieved the amber blondness of her temples; her\nmarble forehead, low like the antique foreheads, but full and perfect in\nform, united by one faultless line with a straight nose, finely\nchiselled as a cameo, with rosy nostrils which the least emotion made\npalpitate like the nostrils of an amorous tigress; the lips of her\nsmall, rounded mouth, slightly separated from the nose, wore a\ndisdainful curve; but an unbridled voluptuousness, an indescribable\nvital warmth, glowed in the brilliant crimson and humid lustre of the\nunder lip. Her eyes were shaded by level eyelids, and eyebrows slightly\narched and delicately outlined. We cannot attempt by description to\nconvey an idea of their brilliancy. It was a fire, a languor, a\nsparkling limpidity which might have made even the dog-headed Anubis\ngiddy. Every glance of her eyes was in itself a poem richer than aught\nof Homer or Mimnermus. An imperial chin, replete with force and power to\ncommand, worthily completed this charming profile.\n\nShe stood erect upon the upper step of the basin, in an attitude full of\nproud grace; her figure slightly thrown back, and one foot in suspense,\nlike a goddess about to leave her pedestal, whose eyes still linger on\nheaven. Her robe fell in two superb folds from the peaks of her bosom to\nher feet in unbroken lines. Had Cleomenes been her contemporary and\nenjoyed the happiness of beholding her thus, he would have broken his\nVenus in despair.\n\nBefore entering the water she bade Charmion, for a new caprice, to\nchange her silver hair-net; she preferred to be crowned with reeds and\nlotos-flowers, like a water divinity. Charmion obeyed, and her liberated\nhair fell in black cascades over her shoulders, and shadowed her\nbeautiful cheeks in rich bunches, like ripening grapes.\n\nThen the linen tunic, which had been confined only by one golden clasp,\nglided down over her marble body, and fell in a white cloud at her feet,\nlike the swan at the feet of Leda....\n\nAnd Me\u00efamoun, where was he?\n\nOh cruel lot, that so many insensible objects should enjoy the favors\nwhich would ravish a lover with delight! The wind which toys with a\nwealth of perfumed hair, or kisses beautiful lips with kisses which it\nis unable to appreciate; the water which envelops an adorably beautiful\nbody in one universal kiss, and is yet, notwithstanding, indifferent to\nthat exquisite pleasure; the mirror which reflects so many charming\nimages; the buskin or _tatbeb_ which clasps a divine little foot--oh,\nwhat happiness lost!\n\nCleopatra dipped her pink heel in the water and descended a few steps.\nThe quivering flood made a silver belt about her waist, and silver\nbracelets about her arms, and rolled in pearls like a broken necklace\nover her bosom and shoulders; her wealth of hair, lifted by the water,\nextended behind her like a royal mantle; even in the bath she was a\nqueen. She swam to and fro, dived, and brought up handfuls of gold-dust\nwith which she laughingly pelted some of her women. Again, she clung\nsuspended to the balustrade of the basin, concealing or exposing her\ntreasures of loveliness--now permitting only her lustrous and polished\nback to be seen, now showing her whole figure, like Venus Anadyomene,\nand incessantly varying the aspects of her beauty.\n\nSuddenly she uttered a cry as shrill as that of Diana surprised by\nAct\u00e6on. She had seen gleaming through the neighboring foliage a burning\neye, yellow and phosphoric as the eye of a crocodile or lion.\n\nIt was Me\u00efamoun, who, crouching behind a tuft of leaves, and trembling\nlike a fawn in a field of wheat, was intoxicating himself with the\ndangerous pleasure of beholding the queen in her bath. Though brave even\nto temerity, the cry of Cleopatra passed through his heart, coldly\npiercing as the blade of a sword. A death-like sweat covered his whole\nbody; his arteries hissed through his temples with a sharp sound; the\niron hand of anxious fear had seized him by the throat and was\nstrangling him.\n\nThe eunuchs rushed forward, lance in hand. Cleopatra pointed out to them\nthe group of trees, where they found Me\u00efamoun crouching in concealment.\nDefence was out of the question. He attempted none, and suffered himself\nto be captured. They prepared to kill him with that cruel and stupid\nimpassibility characteristic of eunuchs; but Cleopatra, who, in the\ninterim, had covered herself with her _calasiris_, made signs to them to\nstop, and bring the prisoner before her.\n\nMe\u00efamoun could only fall upon his knees and stretch forth suppliant\nhands to her, as to the altars of the gods.\n\n\"Are you some assassin bribed by Rome, or for what purpose have you\nentered these sacred precincts from which all men are excluded?\"\ndemanded Cleopatra with an imperious gesture of interrogation.\n\n\"May my soul be found light in the balance of Amenti, and may Tme\u00ef,\ndaughter of the Sun and goddess of Truth, punish me if I have ever\nentertained a thought of evil against you, O queen!\" answered Me\u00efamoun,\nstill upon his knees.\n\nSincerity and loyalty were written upon his countenance in characters so\ntransparent that Cleopatra immediately banished her suspicions, and\nlooked upon the young Egyptian with a look less stern and wrathful. She\nsaw that he was beautiful.\n\n\"Then what motive could have prompted you to enter a place where you\ncould only expect to meet death?\"\n\n\"I love you!\" murmured Me\u00efamoun in a low, but distinct voice; for his\ncourage had returned, as in every desperate situation when the odds\nagainst him could be no worse.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Cleopatra, bending toward him, and seizing his arm with a\nsudden brusque movement, \"so, then, it was you who shot that arrow with\nthe papyrus scroll! By Oms, the Dog of Hell, you are a very foolhardy\nwretch!... I now recognize you. I long observed you wandering like a\ncomplaining Shade about the places where I dwell.... You were at the\nProcession of Isis, at the Panegyris of Hermonthis. You followed the\nroyal cangia. Ah! you must have a queen?... You have no mean ambitions.\nYou expect, without doubt, to be well paid in return.... Assuredly I am\ngoing to love you.... Why not?\"\n\n\"Queen,\" returned Me\u00efamoun with a look of deep melancholy, \"do not rail.\nI am mad, it is true. I have deserved death; that is also true. Be\nhumane; bid them kill me.\"\n\n\"No; I have taken the whim to be clement to-day. I will give you your\nlife.\"\n\n\"What would you that I should do with life? I love you!\"\n\n\"Well, then, you shall be satisfied; you shall die,\" answered Cleopatra.\n\"You have indulged yourself in wild and extravagant dreams; in fancy\nyour desires have crossed an impassable threshold. You imagined yourself\nto be C\u00e6sar or Mark Antony. You loved the queen. In some moment of\ndelirium you have been able to believe that, under some condition of\nthings which takes place but once in a thousand years, Cleopatra might\nsome day love you. Well, what you thought impossible is actually about\nto happen. I will transform your dream into a reality. It pleases me,\nfor once, to secure the accomplishment of a mad hope. I am willing to\ninundate you with glories and splendors and lightnings. I intend that\nyour good fortune shall be dazzling in its brilliancy. You were at the\nbottom of the ladder. I am about to lift you to the summit, abruptly,\nsuddenly, without a transition. I take you out of nothingness, I make\nyou the equal of a god, and I plunge you back again into nothingness;\nthat is all. But do not presume to call me cruel or to invoke my pity;\ndo not weaken when the hour comes. I am good to you. I lend myself to\nyour folly. I have the right to order you to be killed at once; but\nsince you tell me that you love me, I will have you killed to-morrow\ninstead. Your life belongs to me for one night. I am generous. I will\nbuy it from you; I could take it from you. But what are you doing on\nyour knees at my feet? Rise, and give me your arm, that we may return to\nthe palace.\"\n\n\n[1] _Conculcatrice des peuples_. From the Latin _conculcare,_ to trample\nunder foot: therefore, the epithet literally signifies the \"Trampler of\nnations.\" (Trans.)\n\n[2] The Greeks and Romans usually termed such figures Herm\u00e6 or Termini.\nCaryatides were, strictly, entire figures of women.--(Trans.)\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nOur world of to-day is puny indeed beside the antique world. Our\nbanquets are mean, niggardly, compared with the appalling sumptuousness\nof the Roman patricians and the princes of ancient Asia. Their ordinary\nrepasts would in these days be regarded as frenzied orgies, and a whole\nmodern city could subsist for eight days upon the leavings of one supper\ngiven by Lucullus to a few intimate friends. With our miserable habits\nwe find it difficult to conceive of those enormous existences, realizing\neverything vast, strange, and most monstrously impossible that\nimagination could devise. Our palaces are mere stables, in which\nCaligula would not quarter his horse. The retinue of our wealthiest\nconstitutional king is as nothing compared with that of a petty satrap\nor a Roman proconsul. The radiant suns which once shone upon the earth\nare forever extinguished in the nothingness of uniformity. Above the\ndark swarm of men no longer tower those Titanic colossi who bestrode the\nworld in three paces, like the steeds of Homer; no more towers of\nLylacq; no giant Babel scaling the sky with its infinity of spirals; no\ntemples immeasurable, builded with the fragments of quarried mountains;\nno kingly terraces for which successive ages and generations could each\nerect but one step, and from whence some dreamfully reclining prince\nmight gaze on the face of the world as upon a map unfolded; no more of\nthose extravagantly vast cities of cyclop\u00e6an edifices, inextricably\npiled upon one another, with their mighty circumvallations, their\ncircuses roaring night and day, their reservoirs filled with ocean brine\nand peopled with whales and leviathans, their colossal stairways, their\nsuper-imposition of terraces, their tower-summits bathed in clouds,\ntheir giant palaces, their aqueducts, their multitude-vomiting gates,\ntheir shadowy necropoli. Alas! henceforth only plaster hives upon\nchessboard pavements.\n\nOne marvels that men did not revolt against such confiscation of all\nriches and all living forces for the benefit of a few privileged ones,\nand that such exorbitant fantasies should not have encountered any\nopposition on their bloody way. It was because those prodigious lives\nwere the realizations by day of the dreams which haunted each man by\nnight, the personifications of the common ideal which the nations beheld\nliving symbolized under one of those meteoric names that flame\ninextinguishably through the night of ages. To-day, deprived of such\ndazzling spectacles of omnipotent will, of the lofty contemplation of\nsome human mind whose least wish makes itself visible in actions\nunparalleled, in enormities of granite and brass, the world becomes\nirredeemably and hopelessly dull. Man is no longer represented in the\nrealization of his imperial fancy.\n\nThe story which we are writing, and the great name of Cleopatra which\nappears in it, have prompted us to these reflections, so ill-sounding,\ndoubtless, to modern ears. But the spectacle of the antique world is\nsomething so crushingly discouraging, even to those imaginations which\ndeem themselves exhaustless, and those minds which fancy themselves to\nhave conceived the utmost limits of fairy magnificence, that we cannot\nhere forbear recording our regret and lamentation that we were not\ncotemporaries of Sardanapalus; of Teglathphalazar; of Cleopatra, queen\nof Egypt; or even of Elagabalus, emperor of Rome and priest of the Sun.\n\nIt is our task to describe a supreme orgie--a banquet compared with\nwhich the splendors of Belshazzar's feast must pale--one of Cleopatra's\nnights. How can we picture forth in this French tongue, so chaste, so\nicily prudish, that unbounded transport of passions, that huge and\nmighty debauch which feared not to mingle the double purple of wine and\nblood, those furious outbursts of insatiate pleasure, madly leaping\ntoward the Impossible with all the wild ardor of senses as yet untamed\nby the long fast of Christianity?\n\nThe promised night should well have been a splendid one, for all the\njoys and pleasures possible in a human lifetime were to be concentrated\ninto the space of a few hours. It was necessary that the life of\nMe\u00efamoun should be converted into a powerful elixir which he could\nimbibe at a single draught. Cleopatra desired to dazzle her voluntary\nvictim, and plunge him into a whirlpool of dizzy pleasures; to\nintoxicate and madden him with the wine of orgie, so that death, though\nfreely accepted, might come invisibly and unawares.\n\nLet us transport our readers to the banquet-hall.\n\nOur existing architecture offers few points for comparison with those\nvast edifices whose very ruins resemble the crumblings of mountains\nrather than the remains of buildings. It needed all the exaggeration of\nthe antique life to animate and fill those prodigious palaces, whose\nhalls were too lofty and vast to allow of any ceiling save the sky\nitself--a magnificent ceiling, and well worthy of such mighty\narchitecture.\n\nThe banquet-hall was of enormous and Babylonian dimensions; the eye\ncould not penetrate its immeasurable depth. Monstrous columns--short,\nthick, and solid enough to sustain the pole itself--heavily expanded\ntheir broad-swelling shafts upon socles variegated with hieroglyphics,\nand sustained upon their bulging capitals gigantic arcades of granite\nrising by successive tiers, like vast stairways reversed. Between each\ntwo pillars a colossal sphinx of basalt, crowned with the _pshent_, bent\nforward her oblique-eyed face and horned chin, and gazed into the hall\nwith a fixed and mysterious look. The columns of the second tier,\nreceding from the first, were more elegantly formed, and crowned in lieu\nof capitals with four female heads addorsed, wearing caps of many folds\nand all the intricacies of the Egyptian headdress. Instead of sphinxes,\nbull-headed idols--impassive spectators of nocturnal frenzy and the\nfuries of orgie--were seated upon thrones of stone, like patient hosts\nawaiting the opening of the banquet.\n\nA third story, constructed in a yet different style of architecture,\nwith elephants of bronze spouting perfume from their trunks, crowned the\nedifice; above, the sky yawned like a blue gulf, and the curious stars\nleaned over the frieze.[1]\n\nProdigious stairways of porphyry, so highly polished that they reflected\nthe human body like a mirror, ascended and descended on every hand, and\nbound together these huge masses of architecture.\n\nWe can only make a very rapid sketch here, in order to convey some idea\nof this awful structure, proportioned out of all human measurements. It\nwould require the pencil of Martin,[2] the great painter of enormities\npassed away, and we can present only a weak pen-picture in lieu of the\nApocalyptic depth of his gloomy style; but imagination may supply our\ndeficiencies. Less fortunate than the painter and the musician, we can\nonly present objects and ideas separately in slow succession. We have as\nyet spoken of the banquet-hall only, without referring to the guests,\nand yet we have but barely indicated its character. Cleopatra and\nMe\u00efamoun are waiting for us. We see them drawing near....\n\nMe\u00efamoun was clad in a linen tunic constellated with stars, and a purple\nmantle, and wore a fillet about his locks, like an Oriental king.\nCleopatra was apparelled in a robe of pale green, open at either side,\nand clasped with golden bees. Two bracelets of immense pearls gleamed\naround her naked arms; upon her head glimmered the golden-pointed\ndiadem. Despite the smile on her lips, a slight cloud of preoccupation\nshadowed her fair forehead, and from time to time her brows became\nknitted in a feverish manner. What thoughts could trouble the great\nqueen? As for Me\u00efamoun, his face wore the ardent and luminous look of\none in ecstasy or vision; light beamed and radiated from his brow and\ntemples, surrounding his head with a golden nimbus, like one of the\ntwelve great gods of Olympus.\n\nA deep, heartfelt joy illumined his every feature. He had embraced his\nrestless-winged chimera, and it had not flown from him; he had reached\nthe goal of his life. Though he were to live to the age of Nestor or\nPriam, though he should behold his veined temples hoary with locks\nwhiter than those of the high priest of Ammon, he could never know\nanother new experience, never feel another new pleasure. His maddest\nhopes had been so much more than realized that there was nothing in the\nworld left for him to desire.\n\nCleopatra seated him beside her upon a throne with golden griffins on\neither side, and clapped her little hands together. Instantly lines of\nfire, bands of sparkling light, outlined all the projections of the\narchitecture--the eyes of the sphinxes flamed with phosphoric\nlightnings; the bull-headed idols breathed flame; the elephants, in lieu\nof perfumed water, spouted aloft bright columns of crimson fire; arms of\nbronze, each bearing a torch, started from the walls, and blazing\naigrettes bloomed in the sculptured hearts of the lotos flowers.\n\nHuge blue flames palpitated in tripods of brass; giant candelabras shook\ntheir dishevelled light in the midst of ardent vapors; everything\nsparkled, glittered, beamed. Prismatic irises crossed and shattered each\nother in the air. The facets of the cups, the angles of the marbles and\njaspers, the chiselling of the vases--all caught a sparkle, a gleam, or\na flash as of lightning. Radiance streamed in torrents and leaped from\nstep to step like a cascade, over the porphyry-stairways. It seemed the\nreflection of a conflagration on some broad river. Had the Queen of\nSheba ascended thither she would have caught up the folds of her robe,\nand believed herself walking in water, as when she stepped upon the\ncrystal pavements of Solomon. Viewed through that burning haze, the\nmonstrous figures of the colossi, the animals, the hieroglyphics, seemed\nto become animated and to live with a factitious life; the black marble\nrams bleated ironically, and clashed their gilded horns; the idols\nbreathed harshly through their panting nostrils.\n\nThe orgie was at its height: the dishes of phenicopters' tongues, and\nthe livers of scarus fish; the eels fattened upon human flesh, and\ncooked in brine; the dishes of peacock's brains; the boars stuffed with\nliving birds; and all the marvels of the antique banquets were heaped\nupon the three table-surfaces of the gigantic triclinium. The wines of\nCrete, of Massicus, and of Falernus foamed up in cratera wreathed with\nroses, and filled by Asiatic pages whose beautiful flowing hair served\nthe guests to wipe their hands upon. Musicians playing upon the sistrum,\nthe tympanum, the sambuke, and the harp with one-and-twenty strings\nfilled all the upper galleries, and mingled their harmonies with the\ntempest of sound that hovered over the feast. Even the deep-voiced\nthunder could not have made itself heard there.\n\nMe\u00efamoun, whose head was lying on Cleopatra's shoulder, felt as though\nhis reason were leaving him. The banquet-hall whirled around him like a\nvast architectural nightmare; through the dizzy glare he beheld\nperspectives and colonnades without end; new zones of porticoes seemed\nto uprear themselves upon the real fabric, and bury their summits in\nheights of sky to which Babel never rose. Had he not felt within his\nhand the soft, cool hand of Cleopatra, he would have believed himself\ntransported into an enchanted world by some witch of Thessaly or Magian\nof Persia.\n\nToward the close of the repast hump-backed dwarfs and mummers engaged\nin grotesque dances and combats; then young Egyptian and Greek maidens,\nrepresenting the black and white Hours, danced with inimitable grace a\nvoluptuous dance after the Ionian manner.\n\nCleopatra herself arose from her throne, threw aside her royal mantle,\nreplaced her starry diadem with a garland of flowers, attached golden\n_crotali_[3] to her alabaster hands, and began to dance before Me\u00efamoun,\nwho was ravished with delight. Her beautiful arms, rounded like the\nhandles of an alabaster vase, shook out bunches of sparkling notes, and\nher _crotali_ prattled with ever-increasing volubility. Poised on the\npink tips of her little feet, she approached swiftly to graze the\nforehead of Me\u00efamoun with a kiss; then she recommenced her wondrous art,\nand flitted around him, now backward-leaning, with head reversed, eyes\nhalf closed, arms lifelessly relaxed, locks uncurled and loose-hanging\nlike a Bacchante of Mount M\u00e6nalus; now again, active, animated,\nlaughing, fluttering, more tireless and capricious in her movements than\nthe pilfering bee. Heart-consuming love, sensual pleasure, burning\npassion, youth inexhaustible and ever-fresh, the promise of bliss to\ncome--she expressed all....\n\nThe modest stars had ceased to contemplate the scene; their golden eyes\ncould not endure such a spectacle; the heaven itself was blotted out,\nand a dome of flaming vapor covered the hall.\n\nCleopatra seated herself once more by Me\u00efamoun. Night advanced; the last\nof the black Hours was about to take flight; a faint blue glow entered\nwith bewildered aspect into the tumult of ruddy light as a moonbeam\nfalls into a furnace; the upper arcades became suffused with pale azure\ntints--day was breaking.\n\nMe\u00efamoun took the horn vase which an Ethiopian slave of sinister\ncountenance presented to him, and which contained a poison so violent\nthat it would have caused any other vase to burst asunder. Flinging his\nwhole life to his mistress in one last look, he lifted to his lips the\nfatal cup in which the envenomed liquor boiled up, hissing.\n\nCleopatra turned pale, and laid her hand on Me\u00efamoun's arm to stay the\nact. His courage touched her. She was about to say, \"Live to love me\nyet, I desire it!...\" when the sound of a clarion was heard. Four\nheralds-at-arms entered the banquet-hall on horseback; they were\nofficers of Mark Antony, and rode but a short distance in advance of\ntheir master. Cleopatra silently loosened the arm of Me\u00efamoun. A long\nray of sunlight suddenly played upon her forehead, as though trying to\nreplace her absent diadem.\n\n\"You see the moment has come; it is daybreak, it is the hour when happy\ndreams take flight,\" said Me\u00efamoun. Then he emptied the fatal vessel at\na draught, and fell as though struck by lightning. Cleopatra bent her\nhead, and one burning tear--the only one she had ever shed--fell into\nher cup to mingle with the molten pearl.\n\n\"By Hercules, my fair queen! I made all speed in vain. I see I have come\ntoo late,\" cried Mark Antony, entering the banquet-hall, \"the supper is\nover. But what signifies this corpse upon the pavement?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing!\" returned Cleopatra, with a smile; \"only a poison I was\ntesting with the idea of using it upon myself should Augustus take me\nprisoner. My dear Lord, will you not please to take a seat beside me,\nand watch those Greek buffoons dance?\"\n\n\n[1] Does not this suggest the lines which DeQuincey so much admired?--\n\n     \"A wilderness of building, sinking far,\n     And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth\n     Far sinking into splendor, without end.\n     Fabric it seemed of diamond, and of gold,\n     With alabaster domes and silver spires,\n     And blazing terrace upon terrace, high\n     Uplifted. Here serene pavilions bright,\n     In avenues disposed; their towers begirt\n     With _battlements that on their restless fronts\n     Bore stars_.\"\n\n\n[2] John Martin, the English painter, whose creations were unparalleled\nin breadth and depth of composition. His pictures seem to have made a\npowerful impression upon the highly imaginative author of these\nRomances. There is something in these descriptions of antique\narchitecture that suggests the influence of such pictured fantasies as\nMartin's \"Seventh Plague;\" \"The Heavenly City;\" and perhaps, especially,\nthe famous \"Pandemonium,\" with its infernal splendor, in Martin's\nillustrations to \"Paradise Lost.\"--(Trans.)\n\n[3] Antique castanets.--(Trans.)\n\n\n\n\nCLARIMONDE[1]\n\n\nBrother, you ask me if I have ever loved. Yes. My story is a strange and\nterrible one; and though I am sixty-six years of age, I scarcely dare\neven now to disturb the ashes of that memory. To you I can refuse\nnothing; but I should not relate such a tale to any less experienced\nmind. So strange were the circumstances of my story, that I can scarcely\nbelieve myself to have ever actually been a party to them. For more than\nthree years I remained the victim of a most singular and diabolical\nillusion. Poor country priest though I was, I led every night in a\ndream--would to God it had been all a dream!--a most worldly life, a\ndamning life, a life of Sardanapalus. One single look too freely cast\nupon a woman well-nigh caused me to lose my soul; but finally by the\ngrace of God and the assistance of my patron saint, I succeeded in\ncasting out the evil spirit that possessed me. My daily life was long\ninterwoven with a nocturnal life of a totally different character. By\nday I was a priest of the Lord, occupied with prayer and sacred things;\nby night, from the instant that I closed my eyes I became a young\nnobleman, a fine connoisseur in women, dogs, and horses; gambling,\ndrinking, and blaspheming, and when I awoke at early daybreak, it seemed\nto me, on the other hand, that I had been sleeping, and had only dreamed\nthat I was a priest. Of this somnambulistic life there now remains to me\nonly the recollection of certain scenes and words which I cannot banish\nfrom my memory; but although I never actually left the walls of my\npresbytery, one would think to hear me speak that I were a man who,\nweary of all worldly pleasures, had become a religious, seeking to end a\ntempestuous life in the service of God, rather than an humble seminarist\nwho has grown old in this obscure curacy, situated in the depths of the\nwoods and even isolated from the life of the century.\n\nYes, I have loved as none in the world ever loved--with an insensate and\nfurious passion--so violent that I am astonished it did not cause my\nheart to burst asunder. Ah, what nights--what nights!\n\nFrom my earliest childhood I had felt a vocation to the priesthood, so\nthat all my studies were directed with that idea in view. Up to the age\nof twenty-four my life had been only a prolonged novitiate. Having\ncompleted my course of theology I successively received all the minor\norders, and my superiors judged me worthy, despite my youth, to pass the\nlast awful degree. My ordination was fixed for Easter week.\n\nI had never gone into the world. My world was confined by the walls of\nthe college and the seminary. I knew in a vague sort of a way that there\nwas something called Woman, but I never permitted my thoughts to dwell\non such a subject, and I lived in a state of perfect innocence. Twice a\nyear only I saw my infirm and aged mother, and in those visits were\ncomprised my sole relations with the outer world.\n\nI regretted nothing; I felt not the least hesitation at taking the last\nirrevocable step; I was filled with joy and impatience. Never did a\nbetrothed lover count the slow hours with more feverish ardor; I slept\nonly to dream that I was saying mass; I believed there could be nothing\nin the world more delightful than to be a priest; I would have refused\nto be a king or a poet in preference. My ambition could conceive of no\nloftier aim.\n\nI tell you this in order to show you that what happened to me could not\nhave happened in the natural order of things, and to enable you to\nunderstand that I was the victim of an inexplicable fascination.\n\nAt last the great day came. I walked to the church with a step so light\nthat I fancied myself sustained in air, or that I had wings upon my\nshoulders. I believed myself an angel, and wondered at the sombre and\nthoughtful faces of my companions, for there were several of us. I had\npassed all the night in prayer, and was in a condition well-nigh\nbordering on ecstasy. The bishop, a venerable old man, seemed to me God\nthe Father leaning over his Eternity, and I beheld Heaven through the\nvault of the temple.\n\nYou well know the details of that ceremony--the benediction, the\ncommunion under both forms, the anointing of the palms of the hands with\nthe Oil of Catechumens, and then the holy sacrifice offered in concert\nwith the bishop.\n\nAh, truly spake Job when he declared that the imprudent man is one who\nhath not made a covenant with his eyes! I accidentally lifted my head,\nwhich until then I had kept down, and beheld before me, so close that it\nseemed that I could have touched her--although she was actually a\nconsiderable distance from me and on the further side of the sanctuary\nrailing--a young woman of extraordinary beauty, and attired with royal\nmagnificence. It seemed as though scales had suddenly fallen from my\neyes. I felt like a blind man who unexpectedly recovers his sight. The\nbishop, so radiantly glorious but an instant before, suddenly vanished\naway, the tapers paled upon their golden candlesticks like stars in the\ndawn, and a vast darkness seemed to fill the whole church. The charming\ncreature appeared in bright relief against the background of that\ndarkness, like some angelic revelation. She seemed herself radiant, and\nradiating light rather than receiving it.\n\nI lowered my eyelids, firmly resolved not to again open them, that I\nmight not be influenced by external objects, for distraction had\ngradually taken possession of me until I hardly knew what I was doing.\n\nIn another minute, nevertheless, I reopened my eyes, for through my\neyelashes I still beheld her, all sparkling with prismatic colors, and\nsurrounded with such a purple penumbra as one beholds in gazing at the\nsun.\n\nOh, how beautiful she was! The greatest painters, who followed ideal\nbeauty into heaven itself, and thence brought back to earth the true\nportrait of the Madonna, never in their delineations even approached\nthat wildly beautiful reality which I saw before me. Neither the verses\nof the poet nor the palette of the artist could convey any conception\nof her. She was rather tall, with a form and bearing of a goddess. Her\nhair, of a soft blonde hue, was parted in the midst and flowed back over\nher temples in two rivers of rippling gold; she seemed a diademed queen.\nHer forehead, bluish-white in its transparency, extended its calm\nbreadth above the arches of her eyebrows, which by a strange singularity\nwere almost black, and admirably relieved the effect of sea-green eyes\nof unsustainable vivacity and brilliancy. What eyes! With a single flash\nthey could have decided a man's destiny. They had a life, a limpidity,\nan ardor, a humid light which I have never seen in human eyes; they shot\nforth rays like arrows, which I could distinctly _see_ enter my heart. I\nknow not if the fire which illumined them came from heaven or from hell,\nbut assuredly it came from one or the other. That woman was either an\nangel or a demon, perhaps both. Assuredly she never sprang from the\nflank of Eve, our common mother. Teeth of the most lustrous pearl\ngleamed in her ruddy smile, and at every inflection of her lips little\ndimples appeared in the satiny rose of her adorable cheeks. There was a\ndelicacy and pride in the regal outline of her nostrils bespeaking noble\nblood. Agate gleams played over the smooth lustrous skin of her\nhalf-bare shoulders, and strings of great blonde pearls--almost equal to\nher neck in beauty of color--descended upon her bosom. From time to time\nshe elevated her head with the undulating grace of a startled serpent or\npeacock, thereby imparting a quivering motion to the high lace ruff\nwhich surrounded it like a silver trellis-work.\n\nShe wore a robe of orange-red velvet, and from her wide ermine-lined\nsleeves there peeped forth patrician hands of infinite delicacy, and so\nideally transparent that, like the fingers of Aurora, they permitted the\nlight to shine through them.\n\nAll these details I can recollect at this moment as plainly as though\nthey were of yesterday, for notwithstanding I was greatly troubled at\nthe time, nothing escaped me; the faintest touch of shading, the little\ndark speck at the point of the chin, the imperceptible down at the\ncorners of the lips, the velvety floss upon the brow, the quivering\nshadows of the eyelashes upon the cheeks, I could notice everything with\nastonishing lucidity of perception.\n\nAnd gazing I felt opening within me gates that had until then remained\nclosed; vents long obstructed became all clear, permitting glimpses of\nunfamiliar perspectives within; life suddenly made itself visible to me\nunder a totally novel aspect. I felt as though I had just been born into\na new world and a new order of things. A frightful anguish commenced to\ntorture my heart as with red-hot pincers. Every successive minute seemed\nto me at once but a second and yet a century. Meanwhile the ceremony was\nproceeding, and I shortly found myself transported far from that world\nof which my newly-born desires were furiously besieging the entrance.\nNevertheless I answered \"Yes\" when I wished to say \"No,\" though all\nwithin me protested against the violence done to my soul by my tongue.\nSome occult power seemed to force the words from my throat against my\nwill. Thus it is, perhaps, that so many young girls walk to the altar\nfirmly resolved to refuse in a startling manner the husband imposed\nupon them, and that yet not one ever fulfils her intention. Thus it is,\ndoubtless, that so many poor novices take the veil, though they have\nresolved to tear it into shreds at the moment when called upon to utter\nthe vows. One dares not thus cause so great a scandal to all present,\nnor deceive the expectation of so many people. All those eyes, all those\nwills seem to weigh down upon you like a cope of lead; and, moreover,\nmeasures have been so well taken, everything has been so thoroughly\narranged beforehand and after a fashion so evidently irrevocable, that\nthe will yields to the weight of circumstances and utterly breaks down.\n\nAs the ceremony proceeded the features of the fair unknown changed their\nexpression. Her look had at first been one of caressing tenderness; it\nchanged to an air of disdain and of mortification, as though at not\nhaving been able to make itself understood.\n\nWith an effort of will sufficient to have uprooted a mountain, I strove\nto cry out that I would not be a priest, but I could not speak; my\ntongue seemed nailed to my palate, and I found it impossible to express\nmy will by the least syllable of negation. Though fully awake, I felt\nlike one under the influence of a nightmare, who vainly strives to\nshriek out the one word upon which life depends.\n\nShe seemed conscious of the martyrdom I was undergoing, and, as though\nto encourage me, she gave me a look replete with divinest promise. Her\neyes were a poem; their every glance was a song.\n\nShe said to me:\n\n\"If thou wilt be mine, I shall make thee happier than God Himself in His\nparadise. The angels themselves will be jealous of thee. Tear off that\nfuneral shroud in which thou art about to wrap thyself. I am Beauty, I\nam Youth, I am Life. Come to me! Together we shall be Love. Can Jehovah\noffer thee aught in exchange? Our lives will flow on like a dream, in\none eternal kiss.\n\n\"Fling forth the wine of that chalice, and thou art free. I will conduct\nthee to the Unknown Isles. Thou shalt sleep in my bosom upon a bed of\nmassy gold under a silver pavilion, for I love thee and would take thee\naway from thy God, before whom so many noble hearts pour forth floods of\nlove which never reach even the steps of His throne!\"\n\nThese words seemed to float to my ears in a rhythm of infinite\nsweetness, for her look was actually sonorous, and the utterances of her\neyes were reechoed in the depths of my heart as though living lips had\nbreathed them into my life. I felt myself willing to renounce God, and\nyet my tongue mechanically fulfilled all the formalities of the\nceremony. The fair one gave me another look, so beseeching, so\ndespairing that keen blades seemed to pierce my heart, and I felt my\nbosom transfixed by more swords than those of Our Lady of Sorrows.\n\nAll was consummated; I had become a priest.\n\nNever was deeper anguish painted on human face than upon hers. The\nmaiden who beholds her affianced lover suddenly fall dead at her side,\nthe mother bending over the empty cradle of her child, Eve seated at\nthe threshold of the gate of Paradise, the miser who finds a stone\nsubstituted for his stolen treasure, the poet who accidentally permits\nthe only manuscript of his finest work to fall into the fire, could not\nwear a look so despairing, so inconsolable. All the blood had abandoned\nher charming face, leaving it whiter than marble; her beautiful arms\nhung lifelessly on either side of her body as though their muscles had\nsuddenly relaxed, and she sought the support of a pillar, for her\nyielding limbs almost betrayed her. As for myself, I staggered toward\nthe door of the church, livid as death, my forehead bathed with a sweat\nbloodier than that of Calvary; I felt as though I were being strangled;\nthe vault seemed to have flattened down upon my shoulders, and it seemed\nto me that my head alone sustained the whole weight of the dome.\n\nAs I was about to cross the threshold a hand suddenly caught mine--a\nwoman's hand! I had never till then touched the hand of any woman. It\nwas cold as a serpent's skin, and yet its impress remained upon my\nwrist, burnt there as though branded by a glowing iron. It was she.\n\"Unhappy man! Unhappy man! What hast thou done?\" she exclaimed in a low\nvoice, and immediately disappeared in the crowd.\n\nThe aged bishop passed by. He cast a severe and scrutinizing look upon\nme. My face presented the wildest aspect imaginable; I blushed and\nturned pale alternately; dazzling lights flashed before my eyes. A\ncompanion took pity on me. He seized my arm and led me out. I could not\npossibly have found my way back to the seminary unassisted. At the\ncorner of a street, while the young priest's attention was momentarily\nturned in another direction, a negro page, fantastically garbed,\napproached me, and without pausing on his way slipped into my hand a\nlittle pocket-book with gold-embroidered corners, at the same time\ngiving me a sign to hide it. I concealed it in my sleeve, and there kept\nit until I found myself alone in my cell. Then I opened the clasp. There\nwere only two leaves within, bearing the words, \"Clarimonde. At the\nConcini Palace.\" So little acquainted was I at that time with the\nthings of this world that I had never heard of Clarimonde, celebrated as\nshe was, and I had no idea as to where the Concini Palace was situated.\nI hazarded a thousand conjectures, each more extravagant than the last;\nbut, in truth, I cared little whether she were a great lady or a\ncourtesan, so that I could but see her once more.\n\nMy love, although the growth of a single hour, had taken imperishable\nroot. I did not even dream of attempting to tear it up, so fully was I\nconvinced such a thing would be impossible. That woman had completely\ntaken possession of me. One look from her had sufficed to change my very\nnature. She had breathed her will into my life, and I no longer lived in\nmyself, but in her and for her. I gave myself up to a thousand\nextravagancies. I kissed the place upon my hand which she had touched,\nand I repeated her name over and over again for hours in succession. I\nonly needed to close my eyes in order to see her distinctly as though\nshe were actually present; and I reiterated to myself the words she had\nuttered in my ear at the church porch: \"Unhappy man! Unhappy man! What\nhast thou done?\" I comprehended at last the full horror of my situation,\nand the funereal and awful restraints of the state into which I had just\nentered became clearly revealed to me. To be a priest!--that is, to be\nchaste, to never love, to observe no distinction of sex or age, to turn\nfrom the sight of all beauty, to put out one's own eyes, to hide forever\ncrouching in the chill shadows of some church or cloister, to visit none\nbut the dying, to watch by unknown corpses, and ever bear about with one\nthe black soutane as a garb of mourning for one's self, so that your\nvery dress might serve as a pall for your coffin.\n\nAnd I felt life rising within me like a subterranean lake, expanding and\noverflowing; my blood leaped fiercely through my arteries; my\nlong-restrained youth suddenly burst into active being, like the aloe\nwhich blooms but once in a hundred years, and then bursts into blossom\nwith a clap of thunder.\n\nWhat could I do in order to see Clarimonde once more? I had no pretext\nto offer for desiring to leave the seminary, not knowing any person in\nthe city. I would not even be able to remain there but a short time, and\nwas only waiting my assignment to the curacy which I must thereafter\noccupy. I tried to remove the bars of the window; but it was at a\nfearful height from the ground, and I found that as I had no ladder it\nwould be useless to think of escaping thus. And, furthermore, I could\ndescend thence only by night in any event, and afterward how should I be\nable to find my way through the inextricable labyrinth of streets? All\nthese difficulties, which to many would have appeared altogether\ninsignificant, were gigantic to me, a poor seminarist who had fallen in\nlove only the day before for the first time, without experience, without\nmoney, without attire.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried I to myself in my blindness, \"were I not a priest I could\nhave seen her every day; I might have been her lover, her spouse.\nInstead of being wrapped in this dismal shroud of mine I would have had\ngarments of silk and velvet, golden chains, a sword, and fair plumes\nlike other handsome young cavaliers. My hair, instead of being\ndishonored by the tonsure, would flow down upon my neck in waving curls;\nI would have a fine waxed mustache; I would be a gallant.\" But one hour\npassed before an altar, a few hastily articulated words, had forever cut\nme off from the number of the living, and I had myself sealed down the\nstone of my own tomb; I had with my own hand bolted the gate of my\nprison! I went to the window. The sky was beautifully blue; the trees\nhad donned their spring robes; nature seemed to be making parade of an\nironical joy. The _Place_ was filled with people, some going, others\ncoming; young beaux and young beauties were sauntering in couples toward\nthe groves and gardens; merry youths passed by, cheerily trolling\nrefrains of drinking songs--it was all a picture of vivacity, life,\nanimation, gayety, which formed a bitter contrast with my mourning and\nmy solitude. On the steps of the gate sat a young mother playing with\nher child. She kissed its little rosy mouth still impearled with drops\nof milk, and performed, in order to amuse it, a thousand divine little\npuerilities such as only mothers know how to invent. The father standing\nat a little distance smiled gently upon the charming group, and with\nfolded arms seemed to hug his joy to his heart. I could not endure that\nspectacle. I closed the window with violence, and flung myself on my\nbed, my heart filled with frightful hate and jealousy, and gnawed my\nfingers and my bedcovers like a tiger that has passed ten days without\nfood.\n\nI know not how long I remained in this condition, but at last, while\nwrithing on the bed in a fit of spasmodic fury, I suddenly perceived the\nAbb\u00e9 S\u00e9rapion, who was standing erect in the centre of the room,\nwatching me attentively. Filled with shame of myself, I let my head fall\nupon my breast and covered my face with my hands.\n\n\"Romuald, my friend, something very extraordinary is transpiring within\nyou,\" observed S\u00e9rapion, after a few moments' silence; \"your conduct is\naltogether inexplicable. You--always so quiet, so pious, so gentle--you\nto rage in your cell like a wild beast! Take heed, brother--do not\nlisten to the suggestions of the devil. The Evil Spirit, furious that\nyou have consecrated yourself forever to the Lord, is prowling around\nyou like a ravening wolf and making a last effort to obtain possession\nof you. Instead of allowing yourself to be conquered, my dear Romuald,\nmake to yourself a cuirass of prayers, a buckler of mortifications, and\ncombat the enemy like a valiant man; you will then assuredly overcome\nhim. Virtue must be proved by temptation, and gold comes forth purer\nfrom the hands of the assayer. Fear not. Never allow yourself to become\ndiscouraged. The most watchful and steadfast souls are at moments liable\nto such temptation. Pray, fast, meditate, and the Evil Spirit will\ndepart from you.\"\n\nThe words of the Abb\u00e9 S\u00e9rapion restored me to myself, and I became a\nlittle more calm. \"I came,\" he continued, \"to tell you that you have\nbeen appointed to the curacy of C----. The priest who had charge of it\nhas just died, and Monseigneur the Bishop has ordered me to have you\ninstalled there at once. Be ready, therefore, to start to-morrow.\" I\nresponded with an inclination of the head, and the Abb\u00e9 retired. I\nopened my missal and commenced reading some prayers, but the letters\nbecame confused and blurred under my eyes, the thread of the ideas\nentangled itself hopelessly in my brain, and the volume at last fell\nfrom my hands without my being aware of it.\n\nTo leave to-morrow without having been able to see her again, to add yet\nanother barrier to the many already interposed between us, to lose\nforever all hope of being able to meet her, except, indeed, through a\nmiracle! Even to write her, alas! would be impossible, for by whom could\nI despatch my letter? With my sacred character of priest, to whom could\nI dare unbosom myself, in whom could I confide? I became a prey to the\nbitterest anxiety.\n\nThen suddenly recurred to me the words of the Abb\u00e9 S\u00e9rapion regarding\nthe artifices of the devil; and the strange character of the adventure,\nthe supernatural beauty of Clarimonde, the phosphoric light of her eyes,\nthe burning imprint of her hand, the agony into which she had thrown me,\nthe sudden change wrought within me when all my piety vanished in a\nsingle instant--these and other things clearly testified to the work of\nthe Evil One, and perhaps that satiny hand was but the glove which\nconcealed his claws. Filled with terror at these fancies, I again picked\nup the missal which had slipped from my knees and fallen upon the floor,\nand once more gave myself up to prayer. Next morning S\u00e9rapion came to\ntake me away. Two mules freighted with our miserable valises awaited us\nat the gate. He mounted one, and I the other as well as I knew how.\n\nAs we passed along the streets of the city, I gazed attentively at all\nthe windows and balconies in the hope of seeing Clarimonde, but it was\nyet early in the morning, and the city had hardly opened its eyes. Mine\nsought to penetrate the blinds and window-curtains of all the palaces\nbefore which we were passing. S\u00e9rapion doubtless attributed this\ncuriosity to my admiration of the architecture, for he slackened the\npace of his animal in order to give me time to look around me. At last\nwe passed the city gates and commenced to mount the hill beyond. When\nwe arrived at its summit I turned to take a last look at the place where\nClarimonde dwelt. The shadow of a great cloud hung over all the city;\nthe contrasting colors of its blue and red roofs were lost in the\nuniform half-tint, through which here and there floated upward, like\nwhite flakes of foam, the smoke of freshly kindled fires. By a singular\noptical effect one edifice, which surpassed in height all the\nneighboring buildings that were still dimly veiled by the vapors,\ntowered up, fair and lustrous with the gilding of a solitary beam of\nsunlight--although actually more than a league away it seemed quite\nnear. The smallest details of its architecture were plainly\ndistinguishable--the turrets, the platforms, the window-casements, and\neven the swallow-tailed weather vanes.\n\n\"What is that palace I see over there, all lighted up by the sun?\" I\nasked S\u00e9rapion. He shaded his eyes with his hand, and having looked in\nthe direction indicated, replied: \"It is the ancient palace which the\nPrince Concini has given to the courtesan Clarimonde. Awful things are\ndone there!\"\n\nAt that instant, I know not yet whether it was a reality or an illusion,\nI fancied I saw gliding along the terrace a shapely white figure, which\ngleamed for a moment in passing and as quickly vanished. It was\nClarimonde.\n\nOh, did she know that at that very hour, all feverish and restless--from\nthe height of the rugged road which separated me from her and which,\nalas! I could never more descend--I was directing my eyes upon the\npalace where she dwelt, and which a mocking beam of sunlight seemed to\nbring nigh to me, as though inviting me to enter therein as its lord?\nUndoubtedly she must have known it, for her soul was too sympathetically\nunited with mine not to have felt its least emotional thrill, and that\nsubtle sympathy it must have been which prompted her to climb--although\nclad only in her night-dress--to the summit of the terrace, amid the icy\ndews of the morning.\n\nThe shadow gained the palace, and the scene became to the eye only a\nmotionless ocean of roofs and gables, amid which one mountainous\nundulation was distinctly visible. S\u00e9rapion urged his mule forward, my\nown at once followed at the same gait, and a sharp angle in the road at\nlast hid the city of S---- forever from my eyes, as I was destined never\nto return thither. At the close of a weary three-days' journey through\ndismal country fields, we caught sight of the cock upon the steeple of\nthe church which I was to take charge of, peeping above the trees, and\nafter having followed some winding roads fringed with thatched cottages\nand little gardens, we found ourselves in front of the fa\u00e7ade, which\ncertainly possessed few features of magnificence. A porch ornamented\nwith some mouldings, and two or three pillars rudely hewn from\nsandstone; a tiled roof with counterforts of the same sandstone as the\npillars, that was all. To the left lay the cemetery, overgrown with high\nweeds, and having a great iron cross rising up in its centre; to the\nright stood the presbytery, under the shadow of the church. It was a\nhouse of the most extreme simplicity and frigid cleanliness. We entered\nthe enclosure. A few chickens were picking up some oats scattered upon\nthe ground; accustomed, seemingly, to the black habit of ecclesiastics,\nthey showed no fear of our presence and scarcely troubled themselves to\nget out of our way. A hoarse, wheezy barking fell upon our ears, and we\nsaw an aged dog running toward us.\n\nIt was my predecessor's dog. He had dull bleared eyes, grizzled hair,\nand every mark of the greatest age to which a dog can possibly attain. I\npatted him gently, and he proceeded at once to march along beside me\nwith an air of satisfaction unspeakable. A very old woman, who had been\nthe housekeeper of the former cur\u00e9, also came to meet us, and after\nhaving invited me into a little back parlor, asked whether I intended to\nretain her. I replied that I would take care of her, and the dog, and\nthe chickens, and all the furniture her master had bequeathed her at his\ndeath. At this she became fairly transported with joy, and the Abb\u00e9\nS\u00e9rapion at once paid her the price which she asked for her little\nproperty.\n\nAs soon as my installation was over, the Abb\u00e9 S\u00e9rapion returned to the\nseminary. I was, therefore, left alone, with no one but myself to look\nto for aid or counsel. The thought of Clarimonde again began to haunt\nme, and in spite of all my endeavors to banish it, I always found it\npresent in my meditations. One evening, while promenading in my little\ngarden along the walks bordered with box-plants, I fancied that I saw\nthrough the elm-trees the figure of a woman, who followed my every\nmovement, and that I beheld two sea-green eyes gleaming through the\nfoliage; but it was only an illusion, and on going round to the other\nside of the garden, I could find nothing except a footprint on the\nsanded walk--a footprint so small that it seemed to have been made by\nthe foot of a child. The garden was enclosed by very high walls. I\nsearched every nook and corner of it, but could discover no one there. I\nhave never succeeded in fully accounting for this circumstance, which,\nafter all, was nothing compared with the strange things which happened\nto me afterward.\n\nFor a whole year I lived thus, filling all the duties of my calling with\nthe most scrupulous exactitude, praying and fasting, exhorting and\nlending ghostly aid to the sick, and bestowing alms even to the extent\nof frequently depriving myself of the very necessaries of life. But I\nfelt a great aridness within me, and the sources of grace seemed closed\nagainst me. I never found that happiness which should spring from the\nfulfilment of a holy mission; my thoughts were far away, and the words\nof Clarimonde were ever upon my lips like an involuntary refrain. Oh,\nbrother, meditate well on this! Through having but once lifted my eyes\nto look upon a woman, through one fault apparently so venial, I have for\nyears remained a victim to the most miserable agonies, and the happiness\nof my life has been destroyed forever.\n\nI will not longer dwell upon those defeats, or on those inward victories\ninvariably followed by yet more terrible falls, but will at once proceed\nto the facts of my story. One night my door-bell was long and violently\nrung. The aged housekeeper arose and opened to the stranger, and the\nfigure of a man, whose complexion was deeply bronzed, and who was\nrichly clad in a foreign costume, with a poniard at his girdle, appeared\nunder the rays of Barbara's lantern. Her first impulse was one of\nterror, but the stranger reassured her, and stated that he desired to\nsee me at once on matters relating to my holy calling. Barbara invited\nhim upstairs, where I was on the point of retiring. The stranger told me\nthat his mistress, a very noble lady, was lying at the point of death,\nand desired to see a priest. I replied that I was prepared to follow\nhim, took with me the sacred articles necessary for extreme unction, and\ndescended in all haste. Two horses black as the night itself stood\nwithout the gate, pawing the ground with impatience, and veiling their\nchests with long streams of smoky vapor exhaled from their nostrils. He\nheld the stirrup and aided me to mount upon one; then, merely laying his\nhand upon the pummel of the saddle, he vaulted on the other, pressed the\nanimal's sides with his knees, and loosened rein. The horse bounded\nforward with the velocity of an arrow. Mine, of which the stranger held\nthe bridle, also started off at a swift gallop, keeping up with his\ncompanion. We devoured the road. The ground flowed backward beneath us\nin a long streaked line of pale gray, and the black silhouettes of the\ntrees seemed fleeing by us on either side like an army in rout. We\npassed through a forest so profoundly gloomy that I felt my flesh creep\nin the chill darkness with superstitious fear. The showers of bright\nsparks which flew from the stony road under the ironshod feet of our\nhorses, remained glowing in our wake like a fiery trail; and had anyone\nat that hour of the night beheld us both--my guide and myself--he must\nhave taken us for two spectres riding upon nightmares. Witch-fires ever\nand anon flitted across the road before us, and the night-birds shrieked\nfearsomely in the depth of the woods beyond, where we beheld at\nintervals glow the phosphorescent eyes of wildcats. The manes of the\nhorses became more and more dishevelled, the sweat streamed over their\nflanks, and their breath came through their nostrils hard and fast. But\nwhen he found them slacking pace, the guide reanimated them by uttering\na strange, guttural, unearthly cry, and the gallop recommenced with\nfury. At last the whirlwind race ceased; a huge black mass pierced\nthrough with many bright points of light suddenly rose before us, the\nhoofs of our horses echoed louder upon a strong wooden draw-bridge, and\nwe rode under a great vaulted archway which darkly yawned between two\nenormous towers. Some great excitement evidently reigned in the castle.\nServants with torches were crossing the courtyard in every direction,\nand above lights were ascending and descending from landing to landing.\nI obtained a confused glimpse of vast masses of architecture--columns,\narcades, flights of steps, stairways--a royal voluptuousness and elfin\nmagnificence of construction worthy of fairyland. A negro page--the same\nwho had before brought me the tablet from Clarimonde, and whom I\ninstantly recognized--approached to aid me in dismounting, and the\nmajor-domo, attired in black velvet with a gold chain about his neck,\nadvanced to meet me, supporting himself upon an ivory cane. Large tears\nwere falling from his eyes and streaming over his cheeks and white\nbeard. \"Too late!\" he cried, sorrowfully shaking his venerable head.\n\"Too late, sir priest! But if you have not been able to save the soul,\ncome at least to watch by the poor body.\"\n\nHe took my arm and conducted me to the death chamber. I wept not less\nbitterly than he, for I had learned that the dead one was none other\nthan that Clarimonde whom I had so deeply and so wildly loved. A\n_prie-dieu_ stood at the foot of the bed; a bluish flame flickering in a\nbronze patera filled all the room with a wan, deceptive light, here and\nthere bringing out in the darkness at intervals some projection of\nfurniture or cornice. In a chiselled urn upon the table there was a\nfaded white rose, whose leaves--excepting one that still held--had all\nfallen, like odorous tears, to the foot of the vase. A broken black\nmask, a fan, and disguises of every variety, which were lying on the\narm-chairs, bore witness that death had entered suddenly and unannounced\ninto that sumptuous dwelling. Without daring to cast my eyes upon the\nbed, I knelt down and commenced to repeat the Psalms for the Dead, with\nexceeding fervor, thanking God that he had placed the tomb between me\nand the memory of this woman, so that I might thereafter be able to\nutter her name in my prayers as a name forever sanctified by death. But\nmy fervor gradually weakened, and I fell insensibly into a reverie. That\nchamber bore no semblance to a chamber of death. In lieu of the f\u0153tid\nand cadaverous odors which I had been accustomed to breathe during such\nfunereal vigils, a languorous vapor of Oriental perfume--I know not what\namorous odor of woman--softly floated through the tepid air. That pale\nlight seemed rather a twilight gloom contrived for voluptuous pleasure,\nthan a substitute for the yellow-flickering watch-tapers which shine by\nthe side of corpses. I thought upon the strange destiny which enabled me\nto meet Clarimonde again at the very moment when she was lost to me\nforever, and a sigh of regretful anguish escaped from my breast. Then it\nseemed to me that some one behind me had also sighed, and I turned round\nto look. It was only an echo. But in that moment my eyes fell upon the\nbed of death which they had till then avoided. The red damask curtains,\ndecorated with large flowers worked in embroidery, and looped up with\ngold bullion, permitted me to behold the fair dead, lying at full\nlength, with hands joined upon her bosom. She was covered with a linen\nwrapping of dazzling whiteness, which formed a strong contrast with the\ngloomy purple of the hangings, and was of so fine a texture that it\nconcealed nothing of her body's charming form, and allowed the eye to\nfollow those beautiful outlines--undulating like the neck of a\nswan--which even death had not robbed of their supple grace. She seemed\nan alabaster statue executed by some skilful sculptor to place upon the\ntomb of a queen, or rather, perhaps, like a slumbering maiden over whom\nthe silent snow had woven a spotless veil.\n\nI could no longer maintain my constrained attitude of prayer. The air of\nthe alcove intoxicated me, that febrile perfume of half-faded roses\npenetrated my very brain, and I commenced to pace restlessly up and\ndown the chamber, pausing at each turn before the bier to contemplate\nthe graceful corpse lying beneath the transparency of its shroud. Wild\nfancies came thronging to my brain. I thought to myself that she might\nnot, perhaps, be really dead; that she might only have feigned death for\nthe purpose of bringing me to her castle, and then declaring her love.\nAt one time I even thought I saw her foot move under the whiteness of\nthe coverings, and slightly disarrange the long, straight folds of the\nwinding sheet.\n\nAnd then I asked myself: \"Is this indeed Clarimonde? What proof have I\nthat it is she? Might not that black page have passed into the service\nof some other lady? Surely, I must be going mad to torture and afflict\nmyself thus!\" But my heart answered with a fierce throbbing: \"It is she;\nit is she indeed!\" I approached the bed again, and fixed my eyes with\nredoubled attention upon the object of my incertitude. Ah, must I\nconfess it? That exquisite perfection of bodily form, although purified\nand made sacred by the shadow of death, affected me more voluptuously\nthan it should have done, and that repose so closely resembled slumber\nthat one might well have mistaken it for such. I forgot that I had come\nthere to perform a funeral ceremony; I fancied myself a young bridegroom\nentering the chamber of the bride, who all modestly hides her fair face,\nand through coyness seeks to keep herself wholly veiled. Heartbroken\nwith grief, yet wild with hope, shuddering at once with fear and\npleasure, I bent over her and grasped the corner of the sheet. I lifted\nit back, holding my breath all the while through fear of waking her. My\narteries throbbed with such violence that I felt them hiss through my\ntemples, and the sweat poured from my forehead in streams, as though I\nhad lifted a mighty slab of marble. There, indeed, lay Clarimonde, even\nas I had seen her at the church on the day of my ordination. She was not\nless charming than then. With her, death seemed but a last coquetry. The\npallor of her cheeks, the less brilliant carnation of her lips, her long\neyelashes lowered and relieving their dark fringe against that white\nskin, lent her an unspeakably seductive aspect of melancholy chastity\nand mental suffering; her long loose hair, still intertwined with some\nlittle blue flowers, made a shining pillow for her head, and veiled the\nnudity of her shoulders with its thick ringlets; her beautiful hands,\npurer, more diaphanous than the Host, were crossed on her bosom in an\nattitude of pious rest and silent prayer, which served to counteract all\nthat might have proven otherwise too alluring--even after death--in the\nexquisite roundness and ivory polish of her bare arms from which the\npearl bracelets had not yet been removed. I remained long in mute\ncontemplation, and the more I gazed, the less could I persuade myself\nthat life had really abandoned that beautiful body forever. I do not\nknow whether it was an illusion or a reflection of the lamplight, but it\nseemed to me that the blood was again commencing to circulate under that\nlifeless pallor, although she remained all motionless. I laid my hand\nlightly on her arm; it was cold, but not colder than her hand on the day\nwhen it touched mine at the portals of the church. I resumed my\nposition, bending my face above her, and bathing her cheeks with the\nwarm dew of my tears. Ah, what bitter feelings of despair and\nhelplessness, what agonies unutterable did I endure in that long watch!\nVainly did I wish that I could have gathered all my life into one mass\nthat I might give it all to her, and breathe into her chill remains the\nflame which devoured me. The night advanced, and feeling the moment of\neternal separation approach, I could not deny myself the last sad sweet\npleasure of imprinting a kiss upon the dead lips of her who had been my\nonly love.... Oh, miracle! A faint breath mingled itself with my breath,\nand the mouth of Clarimonde responded to the passionate pressure of\nmine. Her eyes unclosed, and lighted up with something of their former\nbrilliancy; she uttered a long sigh, and uncrossing her arms, passed\nthem around my neck with a look of ineffable delight. \"Ah, it is thou,\nRomuald!\" she murmured in a voice languishingly sweet as the last\nvibrations of a harp. \"What ailed thee, dearest? I waited so long for\nthee that I am dead; but we are now betrothed; I can see thee and visit\nthee. Adieu, Romuald, adieu! I love thee. That is all I wished to tell\nthee, and I give thee back the life which thy kiss for a moment\nrecalled. We shall soon meet again.\"\n\nHer head fell back, but her arms yet encircled me, as though to retain\nme still. A furious whirlwind suddenly burst in the window, and entered\nthe chamber. The last remaining leaf of the white rose for a moment\npalpitated at the extremity of the stalk like a butterfly's wing, then\nit detached itself and flew forth through the open casement, bearing\nwith it the soul of Clarimonde. The lamp was extinguished, and I fell\ninsensible upon the bosom of the beautiful dead.\n\nWhen I came to myself again I was lying on the bed in my little room at\nthe presbytery, and the old dog of the former cur\u00e9 was licking my hand\nwhich had been hanging down outside of the covers. Barbara, all\ntrembling with age and anxiety, was busying herself about the room,\nopening and shutting drawers, and emptying powders into glasses. On\nseeing me open my eyes, the old woman uttered a cry of joy, the dog\nyelped and wagged his tail, but I was still so weak that I could not\nspeak a single word or make the slightest motion. Afterward I learned\nthat I had lain thus for three days, giving no evidence of life beyond\nthe faintest respiration. Those three days do not reckon in my life, nor\ncould I ever imagine whither my spirit had departed during those three\ndays; I have no recollection of aught relating to them. Barbara told me\nthat the same coppery-complexioned man who came to seek me on the night\nof my departure from the presbytery, had brought me back the next\nmorning in a close litter, and departed immediately afterward. When I\nbecame able to collect my scattered thoughts, I reviewed within my mind\nall the circumstances of that fateful night. At first I thought I had\nbeen the victim of some magical illusion, but ere long the recollection\nof other circumstances, real and palpable in themselves, came to forbid\nthat supposition. I could not believe that I had been dreaming, since\nBarbara as well as myself had seen the strange man with his two black\nhorses, and described with exactness every detail of his figure and\napparel. Nevertheless it appeared that none knew of any castle in the\nneighborhood answering to the description of that in which I had again\nfound Clarimonde.\n\nOne morning I found the Abb\u00e9 S\u00e9rapion in my room. Barbara had advised\nhim that I was ill, and he had come with all speed to see me. Although\nthis haste on his part testified to an affectionate interest in me, yet\nhis visit did not cause me the pleasure which it should have done. The\nAbb\u00e9 S\u00e9rapion had something penetrating and inquisitorial in his gaze\nwhich made me feel very ill at ease. His presence filled me with\nembarrassment and a sense of guilt. At the first glance he divined my\ninterior trouble, and I hated him for his clairvoyance.\n\nWhile he inquired after my health in hypocritically honeyed accents, he\nconstantly kept his two great _yellow_ lion-eyes fixed upon me, and\nplunged his look into my soul like a sounding lead. Then he asked me how\nI directed my parish, if I was happy in it, how I passed the leisure\nhours allowed me in the intervals of pastoral duty, whether I had become\nacquainted with many of the inhabitants of the place, what was my\nfavorite reading, and a thousand other such questions. I answered these\ninquiries as briefly as possible, and he, without ever waiting for my\nanswers, passed rapidly from one subject of query to another. That\nconversation had evidently no connection with what he actually wished to\nsay. At last, without any premonition, but as though repeating a piece\nof news which he had recalled on the instant, and feared might otherwise\nbe forgotten subsequently, he suddenly said, in a clear vibrant voice,\nwhich rang in my ears like the trumpets of the Last Judgment:\n\n\"The great courtesan Clarimonde died a few days ago, at the close of an\norgie which lasted eight days and eight nights. It was something\ninfernally splendid. The abominations of the banquets of Belshazzar and\nCleopatra were re\u00ebnacted there. Good God, what age are we living in? The\nguests were served by swarthy slaves who spoke an unknown tongue, and\nwho seemed to me to be veritable demons. The livery of the very least\namong them would have served for the gala-dress of an emperor. There\nhave always been very strange stories told of this Clarimonde, and all\nher lovers came to a violent or miserable end. They used to say that she\nwas a ghoul, a female vampire; but I believe she was none other than\nBeelzebub himself.\"\n\nHe ceased to speak and commenced to regard me more attentively than\never, as though to observe the effect of his words on me. I could not\nrefrain from starting when I heard him utter the name of Clarimonde, and\nthis news of her death, in addition to the pain it caused me by reason\nof its coincidence with the nocturnal scenes I had witnessed, filled me\nwith an agony and terror which my face betrayed, despite my utmost\nendeavors to appear composed. S\u00e9rapion fixed an anxious and severe look\nupon me, and then observed: \"My son, I must warn you that you are\nstanding with foot raised upon the brink of an abyss; take heed lest you\nfall therein. Satan's claws are long, and tombs are not always true to\ntheir trust. The tombstone of Clarimonde should be sealed down with a\ntriple seal, for, if report be true, it is not the first time she has\ndied. May God watch over you, Romuald!\"\n\nAnd with these words the Abb\u00e9 walked slowly to the door. I did not see\nhim again at that time, for he left for S---- almost immediately.\n\nI became completely restored to health and resumed my accustomed duties.\nThe memory of Clarimonde and the words of the old Abb\u00e9 were constantly\nin my mind; nevertheless no extraordinary event had occurred to verify\nthe funereal predictions of S\u00e9rapion, and I had commenced to believe\nthat his fears and my own terrors were over-exaggerated, when one night\nI had a strange dream. I had hardly fallen asleep when I heard my\nbed-curtains drawn apart, as their rings slided back upon the curtain\nrod with a sharp sound. I rose up quickly upon my elbow, and beheld the\nshadow of a woman standing erect before me. I recognized Clarimonde\nimmediately. She bore in her hand a little lamp, shaped like those which\nare placed in tombs, and its light lent her fingers a rosy transparency,\nwhich extended itself by lessening degrees even to the opaque and milky\nwhiteness of her bare arm. Her only garment was the linen winding-sheet\nwhich had shrouded her when lying upon the bed of death. She sought to\ngather its folds over her bosom as though ashamed of being so scantily\nclad, but her little hand was not equal to the task. She was so white\nthat the color of the drapery blended with that of her flesh under the\npallid rays of the lamp. Enveloped with this subtle tissue which\nbetrayed all the contour of her body, she seemed rather the marble\nstatue of some fair antique bather than a woman endowed with life. But\ndead or living, statue or woman, shadow or body, her beauty was still\nthe same, only that the green light of her eyes was less brilliant, and\nher mouth, once so warmly crimson, was only tinted with a faint tender\nrosiness, like that of her cheeks. The little blue flowers which I had\nnoticed entwined in her hair were withered and dry, and had lost nearly\nall their leaves, but this did not prevent her from being charming--so\ncharming that notwithstanding the strange character of the adventure,\nand the unexplainable manner in which she had entered my room, I felt\nnot even for a moment the least fear.\n\nShe placed the lamp on the table and seated herself at the foot of my\nbed; then bending toward me, she said, in that voice at once silvery\nclear and yet velvety in its sweet softness, such as I never heard from\nany lips save hers:\n\n\"I have kept thee long in waiting, dear Romuald, and it must have seemed\nto thee that I had forgotten thee. But I come from afar off, very far\noff, and from a land whence no other has ever yet returned. There is\nneither sun nor moon in that land whence I come: all is but space and\nshadow; there is neither road nor pathway: no earth for the foot, no air\nfor the wing; and nevertheless behold me here, for Love is stronger than\nDeath and must conquer him in the end. Oh what sad faces and fearful\nthings I have seen on my way hither! What difficulty my soul, returned\nto earth through the power of will alone, has had in finding its body\nand reinstating itself therein! What terrible efforts I had to make ere\nI could lift the ponderous slab with which they had covered me! See,\nthe palms of my poor hands are all bruised! Kiss them, sweet love, that\nthey may be healed!\" She laid the cold palms of her hands upon my mouth,\none after the other. I kissed them, indeed, many times, and she the\nwhile watched me with a smile of ineffable affection.\n\nI confess to my shame that I had entirely forgotten the advice of the\nAbb\u00e9 S\u00e9rapion and the sacred office wherewith I had been invested. I had\nfallen without resistance, and at the first assault. I had not even made\nthe least effort to repel the tempter. The fresh coolness of\nClarimonde's skin penetrated my own, and I felt voluptuous tremors pass\nover my whole body. Poor child! in spite of all I saw afterward, I can\nhardly yet believe she was a demon; at least she had no appearance of\nbeing such, and never did Satan so skilfully conceal his claws and\nhorns. She had drawn her feet up beneath her, and squatted down on the\nedge of the couch in an attitude full of negligent coquetry. From time\nto time she passed her little hand through my hair and twisted it into\ncurls, as though trying how a new style of wearing it would become my\nface. _I_ abandoned myself to her hands with the most guilty pleasure,\nwhile she accompanied her gentle play with the prettiest prattle. The\nmost remarkable fact was that I felt no astonishment whatever at so\nextraordinary an adventure, and as in dreams one finds no difficulty in\naccepting the most fantastic events as simple facts, so all these\ncircumstances seemed to me perfectly natural in themselves.\n\n\"I loved thee long ere I saw thee, dear Romuald, and sought thee\neverywhere. Thou wast my dream, and I first saw thee in the church at\nthe fatal moment. I said at once, 'It is he!' I gave thee a look into\nwhich I threw all the love I ever had, all the love I now have, all the\nlove I shall ever have for thee--a look that would have damned a\ncardinal or brought a king to his knees at my feet in view of all his\ncourt. Thou remainedst unmoved, preferring thy God to me!\n\n\"Ah, how jealous I am of that God whom thou didst love and still lovest\nmore than me!\n\n\"Woe is me, unhappy one that I am! I can never have thy heart all to\nmyself, I whom thou didst recall to life with a kiss--dead Clarimonde,\nwho for thy sake bursts asunder the gates of the tomb, and comes to\nconsecrate to thee a life which she has resumed only to make thee\nhappy!\"\n\nAll her words were accompanied with the most impassioned caresses, which\nbewildered my sense and my reason to such an extent, that I did not fear\nto utter a frightful blasphemy for the sake of consoling her, and to\ndeclare that I loved her as much as God.\n\nHer eyes rekindled and shone like chrysoprases. \"In truth?--in very\ntruth?--as much as God!\" she cried, flinging her beautiful arms around\nme. \"Since it is so, thou wilt come with me; thou wilt follow me\nwhithersoever I desire. Thou wilt cast away thy ugly black habit. Thou\nshalt be the proudest and most envied of cavaliers; thou shalt be my\nlover! To be the acknowledged lover of Clarimonde, who has refused even\na Pope, that will be something to feel proud of! Ah, the fair,\nunspeakably happy existence, the beautiful golden life we shall live\ntogether! And when shall we depart, my fair sir?\"\n\n\"To-morrow! To-morrow!\" I cried in my delirium.\n\n\"To-morrow, then, so let it be!\" she answered. \"In the meanwhile I shall\nhave opportunity to change my toilet, for this is a little too light and\nin nowise suited for a voyage. I must also forthwith notify all my\nfriends who believe me dead, and mourn for me as deeply as they are\ncapable of doing. The money, the dresses, the carriages--all will be\nready. I shall call for thee at this same hour. Adieu, dear heart!\" And\nshe lightly touched my forehead with her lips. The lamp went out, the\ncurtains closed again, and all became dark; a leaden, dreamless sleep\nfell on me and held me unconscious until the morning following.\n\nI awoke later than usual, and the recollection of this singular\nadventure troubled me during the whole day. I finally persuaded myself\nthat it was a mere vapor of my heated imagination. Nevertheless its\nsensations had been so vivid that it was difficult to persuade myself\nthat they were not real, and it was not without some presentiment of\nwhat was going to happen that I got into bed at last, after having\nprayed God to drive far from me all thoughts of evil, and to protect the\nchastity of my slumber.\n\nI soon fell into a deep sleep, and my dream was continued. The curtains\nagain parted, and I beheld Clarimonde, not as on the former occasion,\npale in her pale winding-sheet, with the violets of death upon her\ncheeks, but gay, sprightly, jaunty, in a superb travelling dress of\ngreen velvet, trimmed with gold lace, and looped up on either side to\nallow a glimpse of satin petticoat. Her blond hair escaped in thick\nringlets from beneath a broad black felt hat, decorated with white\nfeathers whimsically twisted into various shapes. In one hand she held a\nlittle riding whip terminated by a golden whistle. She tapped me lightly\nwith it, and exclaimed: \"Well, my fine sleeper, is this the way you make\nyour preparations? I thought I would find you up and dressed. Arise\nquickly, we have no time to lose.\"\n\nI leaped out of bed at once.\n\n\"Come, dress yourself, and let us go,\" she continued, pointing to a\nlittle package she had brought with her. \"The horses are becoming\nimpatient of delay and champing their bits at the door. We ought to have\nbeen by this time at least ten leagues distant from here.\"\n\nI dressed myself hurriedly, and she handed me the articles of apparel\nherself one by one, bursting into laughter from time to time at my\nawkwardness, as she explained to me the use of a garment when I had made\na mistake. She hurriedly arranged my hair, and this done, held up before\nme a little pocket mirror of Venetian crystal, rimmed with silver\nfiligree-work, and playfully asked: \"How dost find thyself now? Wilt\nengage me for thy valet de chambre?\"\n\nI was no longer the same person, and I could not even recognize myself.\nI resembled my former self no more than a finished statue resembles a\nblock of stone. My old face seemed but a coarse daub of the one\nreflected in the mirror. I was handsome, and my vanity was sensibly\ntickled by the metamorphosis. That elegant apparel, that richly\nembroidered vest had made of me a totally different personage, and I\nmarvelled at the power of transformation owned by a few yards of cloth\ncut after a certain pattern. The spirit of my costume penetrated my very\nskin, and within ten minutes more I had become something of a coxcomb.\n\nIn order to feel more at ease in my new attire, I took several turns up\nand down the room. Clarimonde watched me with an air of maternal\npleasure, and appeared well satisfied with her work. \"Come, enough of\nthis child's-play! Let us start, Romuald, dear. We have far to go, and\nwe may not get there in time.\" She took my hand and led me forth. All\nthe doors opened before her at a touch, and we passed by the dog without\nawaking him.\n\nAt the gate we found Margheritone waiting, the same swarthy groom who\nhad once before been my escort. He held the bridles of three horses, all\nblack like those which bore us to the castle--one for me, one for him,\none for Clarimonde. Those horses must have been Spanish genets born of\nmares fecundated by a zephyr, for they were fleet as the wind itself,\nand the moon, which had just risen at our departure to light us on the\nway, rolled over the sky like a wheel detached from her own chariot. We\nbeheld her on the right leaping from tree to tree, and putting herself\nout of breath in the effort to keep up with us. Soon we came upon a\nlevel plain where, hard by a clump of trees, a carriage with four\nvigorous horses awaited us. We entered it, and the postilions urged\ntheir animals into a mad gallop. I had one arm around Clarimonde's\nwaist, and one of her hands clasped in mine; her head leaned upon my\nshoulder, and I felt her bosom, half bare, lightly pressing against my\narm. I had never known such intense happiness. In that hour I had\nforgotten everything, and I no more remembered having ever been a priest\nthan I remembered what I had been doing in my mother's womb, so great\nwas the fascination which the evil spirit exerted upon me. From that\nnight my nature seemed in some sort to have become halved, and there\nwere two men within me, neither of whom knew the other. At one moment I\nbelieved myself a priest who dreamed nightly that he was a gentleman,\nat another that I was a gentleman who dreamed he was a priest. I could\nno longer distinguish the dream from the reality, nor could I discover\nwhere the reality began or where ended the dream. The exquisite young\nlord and libertine railed at the priest, the priest loathed the\ndissolute habits of the young lord. Two spirals entangled and confounded\nthe one with the other, yet never touching, would afford a fair\nrepresentation of this bicephalic life which I lived. Despite the\nstrange character of my condition, I do not believe that I ever\ninclined, even for a moment, to madness. I always retained with extreme\nvividness all the perceptions of my two lives. Only there was one absurd\nfact which I could not explain to myself--namely, that the consciousness\nof the same individuality existed in two men so opposite in character.\nIt was an anomaly for which I could not account--whether I believed\nmyself to be the cur\u00e9 of the little village of C----, or _Il Signor\nRomualdo_, the titled lover of Clarimonde.\n\nBe that as it may, I lived, at least I believed that I lived, in Venice.\nI have never been able to discover rightly how much of illusion and how\nmuch of reality there was in this fantastic adventure. We dwelt in a\ngreat palace on the Canaleio, filled with frescoes and statues, and\ncontaining two Titians in the noblest style of the great master, which\nwere hung in Clarimonde's chamber. It was a palace well worthy of a\nking. We had each our gondola, our _barcarolli_ in family livery, our\nmusic hall, and our special poet. Clarimonde always lived upon a\nmagnificent scale; there was something of Cleopatra in her nature. As\nfor me, I had the retinue of a prince's son, and I was regarded with as\nmuch reverential respect as though I had been of the family of one of\nthe twelve Apostles or the four Evangelists of the Most Serene Republic.\nI would not have turned aside to allow even the Doge to pass, and I do\nnot believe that since Satan fell from heaven, any creature was ever\nprouder or more insolent than I. I went to the Ridotto, and played with\na luck which seemed absolutely infernal. I received the best of all\nsociety--the sons of ruined families, women of the theatre, shrewd\nknaves, parasites, hectoring swashbucklers. But notwithstanding the\ndissipation of such a life, I always remained faithful to Clarimonde. I\nloved her wildly. She would have excited satiety itself, and chained\ninconstancy. To have Clarimonde was to have twenty mistresses; aye, to\npossess all women: so mobile, so varied of aspect, so fresh in new\ncharms was she all in herself--a very chameleon of a woman, in sooth.\nShe made you commit with her the infidelity you would have committed\nwith another, by donning to perfection the character, the attraction,\nthe style of beauty of the woman who appeared to please you. She\nreturned my love a hundred-fold, and it was in vain that the young\npatricians and even the Ancients of the Council of Ten made her the most\nmagnificent proposals. A Foscari even went so far as to offer to espouse\nher. She rejected all his overtures. Of gold she had enough. She wished\nno longer for anything but love--a love youthful, pure, evoked by\nherself, and which should be a first and last passion. I would have been\nperfectly happy but for a cursed nightmare which recurred every night,\nand in which I believed myself to be a poor village cur\u00e9, practising\nmortification and penance for my excesses during the day. Reassured by\nmy constant association with her, I never thought further of the strange\nmanner in which I had become acquainted with Clarimonde. But the words\nof the Abb\u00e9 S\u00e9rapion concerning her recurred often to my memory, and\nnever ceased to cause me uneasiness.\n\nFor some time the health of Clarimonde had not been so good as usual;\nher complexion grew paler day by day. The physicians who were summoned\ncould not comprehend the nature of her malady and knew not how to treat\nit. They all prescribed some insignificant remedies, and never called a\nsecond time. Her paleness, nevertheless, visibly increased, and she\nbecame colder and colder, until she seemed almost as white and dead as\nupon that memorable night in the unknown castle. I grieved with anguish\nunspeakable to behold her thus slowly perishing; and she, touched by my\nagony, smiled upon me sweetly and sadly with the fateful smile of those\nwho feel that they must die.\n\nOne morning I was seated at her bedside, and breakfasting from a little\ntable placed close at hand, so that I might not be obliged to leave her\nfor a single instant. In the act of cutting some fruit I accidentally\ninflicted rather a deep gash on my finger. The blood immediately gushed\nforth in a little purple jet, and a few drops spurted upon Clarimonde.\nHer eyes flashed, her face suddenly assumed an expression of savage and\nferocious joy such as I had never before observed in her. She leaped out\nof her bed with animal agility--the agility, as it were, of an ape or a\ncat--and sprang upon my wound, which she commenced to suck with an air\nof unutterable pleasure. She swallowed the blood in little mouthfuls,\nslowly and carefully, like a connoisseur tasting a wine from Xeres or\nSyracuse. Gradually her eyelids half closed, and the pupils of her green\neyes became oblong instead of round. From time to time she paused in\norder to kiss my hand, then she would recommence to press her lips to\nthe lips of the wound in order to coax forth a few more ruddy drops.\nWhen she found that the blood would no longer come, she arose with eyes\nliquid and brilliant, rosier than a May dawn; her face full and fresh,\nher hand warm and moist--in fine, more beautiful than ever, and in the\nmost perfect health.\n\n\"I shall not die! I shall not die!\" she cried, clinging to my neck, half\nmad with joy. \"I can love thee yet for a long time. My life is thine,\nand all that is of me comes from thee. A few drops of thy rich and noble\nblood, more precious and more potent than all the elixirs of the earth,\nhave given me back life.\"\n\nThis scene long haunted my memory, and inspired me with strange doubts\nin regard to Clarimonde; and the same evening, when slumber had\ntransported me to my presbytery, I beheld the Abb\u00e9 S\u00e9rapion, graver and\nmore anxious of aspect than ever. He gazed attentively at me, and\nsorrowfully exclaimed: \"Not content with losing your soul, you now\ndesire also to lose your body. Wretched young man, into how terrible a\nplight have you fallen!\" The tone in which he uttered these words\npowerfully affected me, but in spite of its vividness even that\nimpression was soon dissipated, and a thousand other cares erased it\nfrom my mind. At last one evening, while looking into a mirror whose\ntraitorous position she had not taken into account, I saw Clarimonde in\nthe act of emptying a powder into the cup of spiced wine which she had\nlong been in the habit of preparing after our repasts. I took the cup,\nfeigned to carry it to my lips, and then placed it on the nearest\narticle of furniture as though intending to finish it at my leisure.\nTaking advantage of a moment when the fair one's back was turned, I\nthrew the contents under the table, after which I retired to my chamber\nand went to bed, fully resolved not to sleep, but to watch and discover\nwhat should come of all this mystery. I did not have to wait long.\nClarimonde entered in her night-dress, and having removed her apparel,\ncrept into bed and lay down beside me. When she felt assured that I was\nasleep, she bared my arm, and drawing a gold pin from her hair,\ncommenced to murmur in a low voice:\n\n\"One drop, only one drop! One ruby at the end of my needle.... Since\nthou lovest me yet, I must not die!... Ah, poor love! His beautiful\nblood, so brightly purple, I must drink it. Sleep, my only treasure!\nSleep, my god, my child! I will do thee no harm; I will only take of thy\nlife what I must to keep my own from being forever extinguished. But\nthat I love thee so much, I could well resolve to have other lovers\nwhose veins I could drain; but since I have known thee all other men\nhave become hateful to me.... Ah, the beautiful arm! How round it is!\nHow white it is! How shall I ever dare to prick this pretty blue vein!\"\nAnd while thus murmuring to herself she wept, and I felt her tears\nraining on my arm as she clasped it with her hands. At last she took the\nresolve, slightly punctured me with her pin, and commenced to suck up\nthe blood which oozed from the place. Although she swallowed only a few\ndrops, the fear of weakening me soon seized her, and she carefully tied\na little band around my arm, afterward rubbing the wound with an unguent\nwhich immediately cicatrized it.\n\nFurther doubts were impossible. The Abb\u00e9 S\u00e9rapion was right.\nNotwithstanding this positive knowledge, however, I could not cease to\nlove Clarimonde, and I would gladly of my own accord have given her all\nthe blood she required to sustain her factitious life. Moreover, I felt\nbut little fear of her. The woman seemed to plead with me for the\nvampire, and what I had already heard and seen sufficed to reassure me\ncompletely. In those days I had plenteous veins, which would not have\nbeen so easily exhausted as at present; and I would not have thought of\nbargaining for my blood, drop by drop. I would rather have opened myself\nthe veins of my arm and said to her: \"Drink, and may my love infiltrate\nitself throughout thy body together with my blood!\" I carefully avoided\never making the least reference to the narcotic drink she had prepared\nfor me, or to the incident of the pin, and we lived in the most perfect\nharmony.\n\nYet my priestly scruples commenced to torment me more than ever, and I\nwas at a loss to imagine what new penance I could invent in order to\nmortify and subdue my flesh. Although these visions were involuntary,\nand though I did not actually participate in anything relating to them,\nI could not dare to touch the body of Christ with hands so impure and a\nmind defiled by such debauches whether real or imaginary. In the effort\nto avoid falling under the influence of these wearisome hallucinations,\nI strove to prevent myself from being overcome by sleep. I held my\neyelids open with my fingers, and stood for hours together leaning\nupright against the wall, fighting sleep with all my might; but the dust\nof drowsiness invariably gathered upon my eyes at last, and finding all\nresistance useless, I would have to let my arms fall in the extremity of\ndespairing weariness, and the current of slumber would again bear me\naway to the perfidious shores. S\u00e9rapion addressed me with the most\nvehement exhortations, severely reproaching me for my softness and want\nof fervor. Finally, one day when I was more wretched than usual, he said\nto me: \"There is but one way by which you can obtain relief from this\ncontinual torment, and though it is an extreme measure it must be made\nuse of; violent diseases require violent remedies. I know where\nClarimonde is buried. It is necessary that we shall disinter her\nremains, and that you shall behold in how pitiable a state the object of\nyour love is. Then you will no longer be tempted to lose your soul for\nthe sake of an unclean corpse devoured by worms, and ready to crumble\ninto dust. That will assuredly restore you to yourself.\" For my part, I\nwas so tired of this double life that I at once consented, desiring to\nascertain beyond a doubt whether a priest or a gentleman had been the\nvictim of delusion. I had become fully resolved either to kill one of\nthe two men within me for the benefit of the other, or else to kill\nboth, for so terrible an existence could not last long and be endured.\nThe Abb\u00e9 S\u00e9rapion provided himself with a mattock, a lever, and a\nlantern, and at midnight we wended our way to the cemetery of ----, the\nlocation and place of which were perfectly familiar to him. After having\ndirected the rays of the dark lantern upon the inscriptions of several\ntombs, we came at last upon a great slab, half concealed by huge weeds\nand devoured by mosses and parasitic plants, whereupon we deciphered the\nopening lines of the epitaph:\n\n     Here lies Clarimonde\n     Who was famed in her life-time\n     As the fairest of women.[2]\n\n\"It is here without a doubt,\" muttered S\u00e9rapion, and placing his lantern\non the ground, he forced the point of the lever under the edge of the\nstone and commenced to raise it. The stone yielded, and he proceeded to\nwork with the mattock. Darker and more silent than the night itself, I\nstood by and watched him do it, while he, bending over his dismal toil,\nstreamed with sweat, panted, and his hard-coming breath seemed to have\nthe harsh tone of a death rattle. It was a weird scene, and had any\npersons from without beheld us, they would assuredly have taken us\nrather for profane wretches and shroud-stealers than for priests of God.\nThere was something grim and fierce in S\u00e9rapion's zeal which lent him\nthe air of a demon rather than of an apostle or an angel, and his great\naquiline face, with all its stern features brought out in strong relief\nby the lantern-light, had something fearsome in it which enhanced the\nunpleasant fancy. I felt an icy sweat come out upon my forehead in huge\nbeads, and my hair stood up with a hideous fear. Within the depths of my\nown heart I felt that the act of the austere S\u00e9rapion was an abominable\nsacrilege; and I could have prayed that a triangle of fire would issue\nfrom the entrails of the dark clouds, heavily rolling above us, to\nreduce him to cinders. The owls which had been nestling in the\ncypress-trees, startled by the gleam of the lantern, flew against it\nfrom time to time, striking their dusty wings against its panes, and\nuttering plaintive cries of lamentation; wild foxes yelped in the far\ndarkness, and a thousand sinister noises detached themselves from the\nsilence. At last S\u00e9rapion's mattock struck the coffin itself, making\nits planks re\u00ebcho with a deep sonorous sound, with that terrible sound\nnothingness utters when stricken. He wrenched apart and tore up the lid,\nand I beheld Clarimonde, pallid as a figure of marble, with hands\njoined; her white winding-sheet made but one fold from her head to her\nfeet. A little crimson drop sparkled like a speck of dew at one corner\nof her colorless mouth. S\u00e9rapion, at this spectacle, burst into fury:\n\"Ah, thou art here, demon! Impure courtesan! Drinker of blood and gold!\"\nAnd he flung holy water upon the corpse and the coffin, over which he\ntraced the sign of the cross with his sprinkler. Poor Clarimonde had no\nsooner been touched by the blessed spray than her beautiful body\ncrumbled into dust, and became only a shapeless and frightful mass of\ncinders and half-calcined bones.\n\n\"Behold your mistress, my Lord Romuald!\" cried the inexorable priest, as\nhe pointed to these sad remains. \"Will you be easily tempted after this\nto promenade on the Lido or at Fusina with your beauty?\"\n\nI covered my face with my hands, a vast ruin had taken place within me.\nI returned to my presbytery, and the noble Lord Romuald, the lover of\nClarimonde, separated himself from the poor priest with whom he had kept\nsuch strange company so long. But once only, the following night, I saw\nClarimonde. She said to me, as she had said the first time at the\nportals of the church: \"Unhappy man! Unhappy man! What hast thou done?\nWherefore have hearkened to that imbecile priest? Wert thou not happy?\nAnd what harm had I ever done thee that thou shouldst violate my poor\ntomb, and lay bare the miseries of my nothingness? All communication\nbetween our souls and our bodies is henceforth forever broken. Adieu!\nThou wilt yet regret me!\" She vanished in air as smoke, and I never saw\nher more.\n\nAlas! she spoke truly indeed. I have regretted her more than once, and I\nregret her still. My soul's peace has been very dearly bought. The love\nof God was not too much to replace such a love as hers. And this,\nbrother, is the story of my youth. Never gaze upon a woman, and walk\nabroad only with eyes ever fixed upon the ground; for however chaste and\nwatchful one may be, the error of a single moment is enough to make one\nlose eternity.\n\n\n[1] \"_La Morte Amoureuse._\"\n\n[2]\n\n     Ici g\u00eet Clarimonde\n     Qui fut de son vivant\n     La plus belle du monde.\n\nThe broken beauty of the lines is unavoidably lost in the translation.\n\n\n\n\nARRIA MARCELLA\n\nA SOUVENIR OF POMPEII\n\n\nThree young friends, who had under-taken an Italian tour together last\nyear, visited the Studii Museum at Naples, where the various antique\nobjects exhumed from the ashes of Pompeii and Herculaneum have been\ncollected.\n\nThey scattered through the halls, inspecting the mosaics, the bronzes,\nthe frescoes detached from the walls of the dead city, each following\nthe promptings of his own particular taste in such matters; and whenever\none of the party encountered something especially curious, he summoned\nhis comrades with cries of delight, much to the scandal of the taciturn\nEnglish visitors, and the staid _bourgeois_ who studiously thumbed\ntheir catalogues.\n\nBut the youngest of the three, who had paused before a glass case,\nappeared wholly deaf to the exclamations of his comrades, so deeply had\nhe become absorbed in contemplation. The object that he seemed to be\nexamining with so much interest was a black mass of coagulated cinders,\nbearing a hollow imprint. One might easily have mistaken it for the\nfragment of some statue-mould, broken in the casting. The trained eye of\nan artist would have readily therein recognized the impression of a\nperfect bosom and a flank as faultless in its outlines as a Greek\nstatue. It is well known, indeed the commonest traveller's guide will\ntell you, that this lava, in cooling about the body of a woman,\npreserved its charming contours. Thanks to the caprice of the eruption\nthat destroyed four cities, that noble form, though crumbled to dust\nnearly two thousand years ago, has come down to us; the rounded\nloveliness of a throat has lived through the centuries in which so many\nempires perished without even leaving the traces of their existence;\nchance-imprinted upon the volcanic scori\u00e6, that seal of beauty remains\nunobliterated.\n\nFinding that he still remained absorbed in contemplation, Octavian's\nfriends returned to where he stood; and Max, touching his shoulder,\ncaused him to start like one surprised in a secret. Evidently Octavian\nhad not been aware of the approach of Max or Fabio.\n\n\"Come, Octavian,\" exclaimed Max, \"do not stay lingering whole hours\nbefore every cabinet, else we shall get late for the train and miss\nseeing Pompeii to-day.\"\n\n\"What is our comrade looking at?\" asked Fabio, drawing near. \"Ah, the\nimprint found in the house of Arrius Diomedes!\" And he turned a\npeculiar, quick glance upon Octavian.\n\nOctavian slightly blushed, took Max's arm, and the visit terminated\nwithout further incident. On leaving the Studii Museum, the three\nfriends entered a _corricolo,_ and were driven to the railway station.\nThe _corricolo_, with its great red wheels, its tracket seat studded\nwith brass nails, and its thin, spirited horse harnessed like a Spanish\nmule, and galloping at full speed over the great slabs of lava pavement,\nis too familiar to need description here, especially as we are not\nrecording impressions of a trip to Naples, but the simple narrative of\nan adventure which, although true, may seem both fantastic and\nincredible in the extreme.\n\nThe railroad by which Pompeii is reached runs for almost its entire\nlength by the sea, whose long volutes of foam advance to unroll\nthemselves upon a beach of blackish sand resembling sifted charcoal.\nThis beach has actually been formed by lava-streams and volcanic\ncinders, and its deep tone forms a strong contrast with the blue of the\nsky and the blue of the waters. The earth alone, in that sunny\nbrightness, seems able to retain a shadow.\n\nThe villages bordered or traversed by the railway--Portici, celebrated\nin one of Auber's operas; Resina, Torre del Gr\u00e6co, Torre dell'\nAnnunziata, whose dwellings with their arcades and terraced roofs\nattract the traveller's gaze--have, notwithstanding the intensity of the\nsunlight and the southern love for whitewashing, something of a\nPlutonian and ferruginous character like Birmingham or Manchester. The\nvery dust is black there. An impalpable soot clings to everything. One\nfeels that the mighty forge of Vesuvius is panting and smoking only a\nfew paces off.\n\nThe three friends left the station at Pompeii, laughing among themselves\nat the odd commingling of antique and modern ideas suggested by the\nsign, \"Pompeii Station\"--a Gr\u00e6co-Roman city and a railway depot!\n\nThey crossed the cotton-field, with its fluttering white bolls, between\nthe railway and the disinterred city, and at the inn which has been\nbuilt just without the ancient rampart they took a guide, or, more\ncorrectly speaking, the guide took them, a calamity which is not easily\navoided in Italy.\n\nIt was one of those delightful days so common in Naples, when the\nbrilliancy of the sunlight and the transparency of the air cause objects\nto take such hues as in the North would be deemed fabulous, and appear\nindeed to belong to the world of dreams rather than to that of\nrealities. The Northern visitor who has once looked upon that glow of\nazure and gold is apt to carry back with him into the depths of his\nnative fogs an incurable nostalgia.\n\nHaving shaken off a corner of her cinder shroud, the resurrected city\nagain rose with her thousand details under a dazzling day. The cone of\nVesuvius, furrowed with stri\u00e6 of blue, rosy, and violet-hued lavas,\nruddily bronzed by the sun, towered sharply defined in the background. A\nthin haze, almost imperceptible in the sunlight, hooded the blunt crest\nof the mountain. At first sight it might have been taken for one of\nthose clouds which shadow the brows of lofty peaks on the fairest days.\nUpon a nearer view, slender threads of white vapor could be perceived\nrising from the mountain-summit, as from the orifices of a perfuming\npan, to reunite above in a light cloud. The volcano, being that day in a\ngood humor, smoked his pipe very peacefully; and but for the example of\nPompeii, buried at his feet, no one would ever have suspected him of\nbeing by nature any more ferocious than Montmartre. On the other side\nfair hills, with outlines voluptuously undulating like the hips of a\nwoman, barred the horizon; and, further yet, the sea, that in other days\nbore biremes and triremes under the ramparts of the city, extended its\nazure boundary.\n\nOf all spectacles, the sight of Pompeii is one of the most surprising.\nThis sudden backward leap of nineteen centuries astonishes even the\nleast comprehensive and most prosaic natures. Two paces lead you from\nthe antique life to the life of to-day, and from Christianity to\npaganism. Thus, when the three friends beheld those streets wherein the\nforms of a vanished past are preserved yet intact, they were strangely\nand profoundly affected, however well prepared by the study of books and\ndrawings they might have been. Octavian, above all, seemed stricken with\nstupefaction, and like a man walking in his sleep, mechanically followed\nthe guide, without hearing the monotonous nomenclature that the varlet\nhad learned by heart and recited like a lesson.\n\nHe gazed wildly on those ruts hollowed out in the cyclopean pavements of\nthe streets by the chariot wheels, and which seem to be of yesterday,\nso fresh do they appear; those inscriptions in red letters skilfully\ntraced upon the surfaces of the walls by rapid strokes of the brush\n(theatrical advertisements, notices of houses to let, votive formulas,\nsigns, announcements of all descriptions, not less curious than a\nfreshly discovered fragment of the walls of Paris, with advertising\nbills and placards attached, would prove a thousand years hence for the\nunknown people of the future); those houses, whose shattered roofs\npermit one to penetrate at a glance into all those interior mysteries,\nall those domestic details which historians invariably neglect, and\nwhereof the secrets die with dying civilizations; those fountains that\neven now seem scarcely dried up; that forum whose restoration was\ninterrupted by the great catastrophe, and whose architraves and columns,\nall ready cut and sculptured, still seem waiting in their purity of\nangle to be lifted into place; those temples, consecrated, in that\nmythologic age when atheists were yet unknown, to gods that have long\nceased to be; those shops wherein the merchant only is missing; that\npublic tavern where may still be seen the circular stain of the drinking\ncups upon the marble; that barracks with its ochre and minium-painted\ncolumns, on which the soldiers scratched grotesque caricatures of\nbattle, and those juxtaposed double theatres of song and drama which\nmight even now resume their entertainments, were not the companies who\nperformed in them turned long since to clay, and at present occupied\nperchance in closing the bunghole of a cask or stopping a crevice in the\nwall, after the fashion of Alexander's ashes or C\u00e6sar's dust, according\nto the melancholy reflections of Hamlet!\n\nFabio mounted upon the thymele of the tragic theatre while Max and\nOctavian climbed to the upper benches; and there, with extravagant\ngestures, he commenced to recite whatever poetical fragments came to his\nmemory, much to the terror of the lizards, who fled, vibrating their\ntails, and hid themselves in the joints of the ruined stonework.\nAlthough the brazen or earthen vessels formerly used to reverberate\nsounds no longer existed, Fabio's voice sounded none the less full and\nvibrant.\n\nThe guide then conducted them across the open fields which overlie those\nportions of Pompeii still buried, to the amphitheatre situated at the\nother end of the city. They passed under those trees whose roots plunge\ndown through the roofs of the edifices interred, displacing tiles,\ncleaving ceilings asunder, and disjointing columns; and they traversed\nthe farms where vulgar vegetables sprout above wonders of art--material\nimages of that oblivion wherewith time covers all things.\n\nThe amphitheatre caused them little surprise. They had seen that of\nVerona, vaster and equally well preserved; besides, the arrangement of\nsuch antique arenas was as familiar to them as that of those in which\nbull-fights are held in Spain, and which they much resemble save in\nsolidity of construction and beauty of material.\n\nAccordingly they soon retraced their footsteps and gained the Street of\nFortune by a cross-path, listening half-distractedly to the _cicerone_,\nwho named each house they passed by the name which had been given it\nimmediately upon its discovery, owing to some characteristic\npeculiarity--the House of the Brazen Bull, the House of the Faun, the\nHouse of the Ship, the Temple of Fortune, the House of Meleager, the\nTavern of Fortune, at the angle of the Consular Road (Via Consularia),\nthe Academy of Music, the Public Market, the Pharmacy, the Surgeon's\nShop, the Custom House, the House of the Vestals, the Inn of Albinus,\nthe Thermopolium, and so on--until they came to that gate which leads to\nthe Street of the Tombs.\n\nWithin the interior arch of this brick-built gate, once adorned with\nstatues which have long since disappeared, may be noticed two deep\ngrooves designed to receive a sliding portcullis, after the style of a\nmedi\u00e6val donjon, to which era, indeed, one might have supposed such a\ndefence peculiar.\n\n\"Who,\" exclaimed Max to his friends, \"could have dreamed of finding in\nPompeii, the Gr\u00e6co-Latin city, a gate so romantically Gothic? Fancy\nsome belated Roman knight blowing his horn before this entrance,\nsummoning them to raise the portcullis, like a page of the fifteenth\ncentury!\"\n\n\"There is nothing new under the sun,\" replied Fabio; \"and the aphorism\nitself is not new, inasmuch as it was formulated by Solomon.\"\n\n\"Perhaps there may be something new under the moon,\" observed Octavian,\nwith a smile of melancholy irony.\n\n\"My dear Octavian,\" cried Max, who during this little conversation had\npaused before an inscription traced in rubric upon the outer wall, \"wilt\nbehold the combats of the gladiators? See the advertisement! Combat and\nchase on the 5th day of the nones of April; the masts of the velarium\nwill be rigged; twenty pairs of gladiators will fight during the nones;\nif you fear for the delicacy of your complexion, be assured that the\nawnings will be spread; and as you might in any case prefer to visit the\namphitheatre early, these men will cut each other's throats in the\nmorning--_matutini erunt._ Nothing could be more considerate.\"\n\nThus chatting, the three friends followed that sepulchre-fringed road\nwhich, according to our modern ideas, would be a lugubrious avenue for\nany city, but which had no sad significations for the ancients, whose\ntombs contained in lieu of hideous corpses only a pinch of\ndust--abstract idea of death! Art beautified these last resting-places,\nand, as Goethe says, the pagan decorated sarcophagi and funeral urns\nwith the images of life.\n\nIt was therefore, doubtless, that Fabio and Max could visit, with a\nlively curiosity and a joyous sense of being, such as they could not\nhave felt in any Christian cemetery, those funeral monuments, all gayly\ngilded by the sun, which, as they stood by the wayside, seemed still\ntrying to cling to life, and inspired none of those chill feelings of\nrepulsion, none of those fantastic terrors evoked by our modern dismal\nplaces of sepulture. They paused before the tomb of Mammia, the public\npriestess, near which a tree (either a cypress or a willow) is growing;\nthey seated themselves in the hemicycle of the triclinium, where the\nfuneral feasts were held, laughing like fortunate heirs; they read with\nmock solemnity the epitaphs of Navoleia, Labeon, and the Arria family,\nsilently followed by Octavian, who seemed more deeply touched than his\ncareless companions by the fate of those dead of two thousand years ago.\n\nThus they came to the villa of Arrius Diomedes, one of the finest\nresidences in Pompeii. It is approached by a flight of brick steps, and\nafter entering the door-way, which is flanked by two small lateral\ncolumns, one finds himself in a court resembling the _patio_ which\noccupies the centre of Spanish and Moorish dwellings, and which the\nancients termed _impluvium_ or _cav\u00e6dium._ Fourteen columns of brick,\noverlaid with stucco, once supported on four sides a portico or covered\nperistyle, not unlike a convent cloister, and beneath which one could\nwalk secure from the rain. This courtyard is paved in mosaic with brick\nand white marble, which presents a subdued and pleasing effect of color.\nIn its centre a quadrilateral marble basin, which still exists, formerly\ncaught the rain-water that dripped from the roof of the portico. It was\na strange experience, entering thus into the life of the antique world,\nand treading with well-blacked boots upon the marbles worn smooth by the\nsandals and buskins of the contemporaries of Augustus and Tiberius.\n\nThe cicerone led them through the _exedra_ or summer parlor, which\nopened to the sea, to receive its cooling breezes. It was there that the\nfamily received company, and took their siesta during those burning\nhours when prevailed the mighty zephyr of Africa, laden with languors\nand storms. He brought them into the basilica, a long open gallery which\nlighted the various apartments, and in which clients and visitors erst\nawaited the call of the Nomenclator. Then he conducted them to the white\nmarble terrace, whence extended a broad view of verdant gardens and blue\nsea. Then he showed them the _Nymph\u00e6um_, or Hall of Baths, with its\nyellow-painted walls, its stucco columns, its mosaic pavement, and its\nmarble bathing-basin which had contained so many of the lovely bodies\nthat have long since passed away like shadows; the _cubiculum_, where\nflitted so many dreams from the Ivory Gate, and whose alcoves contrived\nin the wall were once closed by a _conopeum_ or curtain, of which the\nbronze rings still lie upon the floor; the _tetrastyle_, or Hall of\nRecreation; the Chapel of the Lares; the Cabinet of Archives; the\nLibrary; the Museum of Paintings; the _gyn\u00e6ceum_ or women's apartment,\ncomprising a suite of small chambers, now half fallen into ruin, but\nwhose walls yet bear traces of paintings and arabesques, like fair\ncheeks from which the rouge has been but half wiped off.\n\nHaving fully inspected all these, they descended to the lower floor, for\nthe ground is much lower on the garden side than it is on the side of\nthe Street of the Tombs. They traversed eight halls painted in antique\nred, whereof one has its walls hollowed with architectural niches, after\nthat style of which we have to-day a good example in the vestibule of\nthe Hall of the Ambassadors at the Alhambra, and finally they came to a\nsort of cave or cellar, whose purpose was clearly indicated by eight\nearthen amphor\u00e6 propped up against the wall, and once perfumed,\ndoubtless, like the odes of Horace with the wines of Crete, Falernia, or\nMassica.\n\nOne solitary bright ray of sunshine streamed through a narrow aperture\nabove, half choked by nettles, whose light-traversed leaves it\ntransformed into emeralds and topazes, and this gay natural detail\nseemed to smile opportunely through the sadness of the place.\n\n\"It was here,\" observed the cicerone, in his customary indifferent tone,\n\"that among seventeen others was found the skeleton of the lady whose\nmould is exhibited at the Naples Museum. She wore gold rings, and the\nshreds of her fine tunic still clung to the mass of cinders which have\npreserved her shape.\"\n\nThe guide's commonplace phrases deeply affected Octavian. He made the\nman point out to him the exact spot where the precious remains had been\ndiscovered, and had it not been for the restraining presence of his\nfriends, he would have abandoned himself to some extravagant lyrism. His\nchest heaved, his eyes glistened with a furtive moisture. Though blotted\nout by twenty centuries of oblivion, that catastrophe touched him like a\nrecent misfortune. Not even the death of a mistress or a friend could\nhave affected him more profoundly; and while Max and Fabio had their\nbacks turned, a tear, two thousand years late, fell upon the spot where\nthat woman, with whom he felt he had fallen retrospectively in love, had\nperished, suffocated by the hot cinders of the volcano.\n\n\"Enough of this arch\u00e6ology,\" cried Fabio. \"We do not propose to write\ndissertations upon an ancient jug or a tile of the age of Julius C\u00e6sar\nin order to obtain memberships in some provincial academy. These classic\nsouvenirs give me the stomachache. Let us go to dinner--if such a thing\nbe possible--in that picturesque hostelry, where I fear we shall be\nserved with fossil beefsteaks and fresh eggs laid prior to the death of\nPliny.\"\n\n\"I will not exclaim with Boileau:\n\n     'Un sot, quelquefois, ouvre un avis important,'\"\n\nexclaimed Max, with a laugh. \"That would be ill-mannered, but your idea\nis a good one. Still, I think it would have been pleasant to banquet\nhere, on some triclinium, reclining after the antique fashion, and\nwaited upon by slaves according to the style of Lucullus or Trimalchio.\nIt is true that I see no oysters from Lake Lucrinus, the turbots and\nmullets from the Adriatic are wanting, the Apuleian boar cannot be had\nin market, and the loaves and honey-cakes on exhibition in the Naples\nMuseum lie, hard as stones, beside their green-gray moulds. Even raw\nmacaroni sprinkled with _cacciacavallo,_ detestable as it may be, is\ncertainly better than nothing. What does friend Octavian think about\nit?\"\n\nOctavian, who was deeply regretting that he had not happened to be in\nPompeii on the day of the eruption, so that he might have saved the lady\nof the gold rings, and thereby merited her love, had not heard a\nsyllable of this gastronomic conversation. Only the last two words\nuttered by Max had fallen upon his ears, and feeling no desire to broach\na discussion, he gave a random nod of assent, upon which the amicable\nparty retraced the road along the ramparts to the inn.\n\nThe table was placed under a sort of open porch which served as a\nvestibule to the hostelry, whose rough cast walls were decorated with\nvarious daubs that the host entitled \"Salvator Rosa,\" \"Espagnolet,\"\n\"Cavalier Massimo,\" and other celebrated names of the Neapolitan School,\nwhich he deemed himself bound to extol.\n\n\"Venerable host,\" cried Fabio, \"do not waste your eloquence to no\npurpose. We are not Englishmen, and we prefer young women to old\ncanvases. Better send us your wine-list by that handsome brunette with\nthe velvety eyes whom I just now perceived on the stairway.\"\n\nFinding that his guests did not belong to the mystifiable class of\nPhilistines and _bourgeois_, the _palforio_ ceased to vaunt his gallery\nin order to glorify his cellar. To begin with, he had all the best\nvintages: Ch\u00e2teau Margaux, Grand Lafitte which had been twice to the\nIndies, Sillery de Mo\u00ebt, Hochmeyer, scarlet wine, port and porter, ale\nand ginger beer, white and red Lachryma-Christi, Caprian, and Falernian.\n\n\"What, you have Falernian wine, _animal!_ And put it at the end of your\nlist! And you dare to subject us to an unendurable \u0153nological litany!\"\ncried Max, leaping at the inn-keeper's throat with burlesque fury. \"Why,\nyou have no sentiment of local color. You are unworthy to live in this\nantique neighborhood. Is it even good, this Falernian wine of yours? Was\nit put in amphor\u00e6 under the Consul Plancus--_Consule Planco?_\"\n\n\"I know nothing about the Consul Plancus, and my wine is not put in\namphor\u00e6, but it is good, and worth ten carlins a bottle,\" answered the\ninn-keeper.\n\nDay had faded away and the night came, a serene, transparent night,\nclearer, assuredly, than full midday in London. The earth had tints of\nazure, and the sky silvery reflections of inconceivable sweetness. The\nair was so still that the flames of the candles on the table did not\noscillate.\n\nA young boy, playing a flute, approached the table, and standing there,\nwith his eyes fixed upon the three guests, performed upon his sweet and\nmelodious instrument, one of those popular airs in a minor key which\nhave a penetrating charm.\n\nPerhaps that lad was a direct descendant of the flute-player who marched\nbefore Duilius.\n\n\"Our repast is assuming quite an antique aspect. We only need some\nGaditanian dancing women and ivy garlands,\" exclaimed Max, as he helped\nhimself to a great bumper of Falernian wine.\n\n\"I feel myself in the humor for making Latin quotations like a\n_feuilleton_ in the _D\u00e9bats_. Stanzas of odes come back to my memory,\"\nadded Max.\n\n\"Keep them to yourself!\" cried Fabio and Octavian, justly alarmed.\n\"Nothing is so indigestible as Latin at dinner.\"\n\nAmong young men with cigars in their mouths and elbows on the table, who\nfind themselves contemplating a certain number of empty flagons,\nespecially when the wine has been capitally good, conversation never\nfails to turn upon women. Each explained his own system, whereof the\nfollowing is a fair summary:\n\nFabio cared only for youth and beauty. Voluptuous and positive, he found\nno pleasure in illusions, and had no preferences in love. A peasant\ngirl would have pleased his fancy as well as a princess, provided she\nwere beautiful. The body rather than its apparel attracted him. He\nlaughed much at certain of his friends who were enamored of so many\nyards of lace and silk, and he declared it were more rational to fall in\nlove with the stock of a fashionable _marchand des nouveaut\u00e9s_. These\nopinions, which were rational enough in the main, and which he made no\nattempt to conceal, caused him to pass for an eccentric.\n\nMax, less of an artist than Fabio, cared only for difficult\nundertakings, complicated intrigues. He sought resistances to vanquish,\nvirtues to seduce, and played at love as at a game of chess, with\nlong-premeditated moves, reserved ambuscades, and stratagems worthy of\nPolybius. In a drawing-room he would always choose the woman who seemed\nleast in sympathy with him for the object of attack. To make her pass by\nskilful transition from aversion to love afforded him delicious\npleasure. To impose himself upon characters which strove to repel him,\nand master wills that rebelled against his influence, seemed to him the\nsweetest of all triumphs. Like those hunters who, through rain,\nsunshine, or snow, through fields and woods, and over plains, pursue\nwith excessive fatigue and unconquerable ardor some miserable quarry\nwhich in three cases out of four they would not deign to eat, so Max,\nhaving once captured his prey, troubled himself no further about it, and\nat once started off on another chase.\n\nAs for Octavian, he confessed that reality itself had little charm for\nhim, not because he indulged in student-dreams, all moulded of lilies\nand roses like one of Demoustier's madrigals, but because there were too\nmany prosaic and repulsive details surrounding all beauty, too many\ndoting and decorated fathers, coquettish mothers who wore natural\nflowers in false hair, ruddy-faced cousins meditating proposals,\nridiculous aunts in love with little dogs. An acquatinta engraving after\nHorace Vernet or Delaroche, hung up in a woman's room, would have been\nsufficient to check a growing passion within him. More poetical even\nthan amorous, he wanted a terrace on Isola-Bella, in Lake Maggiore,\nunder the light of a full moon to frame a rendezvous. He would have\nwished to elevate his love above the midst of common life, and transport\nits scenes to the stars. Thus he had by turns fallen fruitlessly and\nmadly in love with all the grand feminine types preserved by history or\nart. Like Faust, he had loved Helen, and would have wished that the\nundulations of the ages might bear to him one of those sublime\npersonifications of human desires and dreams, whose forms, to mortal\neyes invisible, live immortally beyond Space and Time. He had created\nfor himself an ideal seraglio, with Semiramis, Aspasia, Cleopatra, Diana\nof Poitiers, Jane of Arragon. At times also he had fallen in love with\nstatues, and one day, passing before the Venus of Milo in the Museum, he\ncried out passionately: \"Oh, who will restore thy arms that thou may'st\ncrush me upon thy marble bosom!\" At Rome, the sight of a matted mass of\nlong thick human hair, exhumed from an antique tomb, had thrown him into\na fantastic delirium. He had attempted, through the medium of a few of\nthose hairs, obtained by a golden bribe from the custodian, and placed\nin the hands of a clairvoyant of great power, to evoke the shade and\nform of the dead; but the conducting fluid--the subtle odyle--had\nevaporated during the lapse of so many years, and the apparition could\nno more come forth out of the eternal night.\n\nAs Fabio had divined before the glass cabinet in the Studii Museum, the\nimprint discovered in the cellar at the villa of Arrius Diomedes had\nexcited in Octavian wild impulses toward a retrospective ideal. He\nlonged to soar beyond Life and Time and transport himself in spirit to\nthe age of Titus.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMax and Fabio retired to their room, and being somewhat heavy-headed\nfrom the classic fumes of the Falernian, were soon sound asleep.\nOctavian, who had more than once suffered the full glass to remain\nbefore him untasted, not wishing to disturb by a grosser intoxication\nthe poetic drunkenness which boiled in his brain, felt from the\nagitation of his nerves that sleep would not come to him, and left the\nhostelry on tiptoe that he might cool his brow and calm his thoughts in\nthe night air.\n\nHis feet bore him unawares to the entrance which leads into the dead\ncity. He removed the wooden bar that closed it, and wandered into the\nruins beyond.\n\nThe moon illuminated the pale houses with her white beams, dividing the\nstreets into double-edged lines of silvery white and bluish shadow. This\nnocturnal day, with its subdued tints, disguised the degradation of the\nbuildings. The mutilated columns, the fa\u00e7ades streaked with fugitive\nlizards, the roofs crumbled in by the eruption, were less noticeable\nthan when beheld under the clear, raw light of the sun. The lost parts\nwere completed by the half-tint of shadow, and here and there one\nbrusque beam of light, like a touch of sentiment in a picture-sketch,\nmarked where a whole edifice had crumbled away. The silent genii of the\nnight seemed to have repaired the fossil city for some representation of\nfantastic life.\n\nAt times Octavian fancied that he saw vague human forms in the shadow,\nbut they vanished the moment they approached the edge of the lighted\nportion of the street. A low whispering, an indefinite hum, floated\nthrough the silence. Our promenader at first attributed them to a\nfluttering in his eyes, to a buzzing in his ears; it might even, he\nthought, be merely an optical delusion, coupled with the sighing of the\nsea-breezes, or the flight of some snake or lizard through the nettles,\nfor in nature all things live, even death; all things make themselves\nheard, even silence. Nevertheless he felt a kind of involuntary terror,\na slight trembling, that might have been caused by the cold night air,\nbut which made his flesh creep. Could it be that his comrades, actuated\nby the same impulses as himself, were seeking him among the ruins? Those\ndimly seen forms and those indistinct sounds of footsteps! Might it not\nhave been only Max and Fabio walking and chatting together, who had just\ndisappeared round the corner of a cross-road? But Octavian felt to his\ndismay that this very natural explanation could not be true, and the\narguments which he made to himself in favor of it were the reverse of\nconvincing. The solitude and the shadow were peopled with invisible\nbeings whom he was disturbing. He had fallen into the midst of a\nmystery, and it seemed that they were awaiting his departure in order to\ncommence again. Such were the extravagant ideas that floated through his\nbrain, and obtained no little verisimilitude from the hour, the place,\nand the thousand alarming details which those can well understand who\nhave ever found themselves alone by night in the midst of some vast\nruin.\n\nPassing before a house which he had attentively observed during the day,\nand which the moon shone fully upon, he beheld in perfect integrity a\ncertain portico whereof he had vainly attempted to restore the design in\nfancy. Four Ionic columns--fluted for half their height and their shafts\npurple-robed with minium tints--sustained a cymatium adorned with\npolychromatic ornaments that the artist seemed only to have completed\nthe day before. Upon one side wall of the entrance a Laconian molossus,\npainted in encaustic, and accompanied by the warning inscription \"_Cave\ncanem_\" barked at the moon and the visitor with pictured fury. On the\nmosaic threshold the word HAVE, in Oscan and Latin characters, saluted\nthe guest with its friendly syllables. The outer surfaces of the walls,\ntinted with ochre and rubric, were unmarred by a single crack. The house\nhad grown a story higher; and the tiled roof, now surmounted by a bronze\nacroterium, projected an intact outline against the light blue of the\nsky, where a few stars were growing pale.\n\nThis strange restoration effected between afternoon and evening by some\nunknown architect greatly puzzled Octavian, who felt certain of having\nthe same day seen that very house in a lamentable state of ruin. The\nmysterious reconstructor had labored with great despatch, for all the\nneighboring dwellings had the same fresh, new look; all the pillars were\ncoiffed with their capitals; not a single stone, a brick, a pellicle of\nstucco or a scale of paint was wanting upon the shining surfaces of the\nfa\u00e7ades; and through the intervals of the peristyles surrounding the\nmarble basin of the cav\u00e6dium one could catch glimpses of white laurels\nand bayroses, myrtles and pomegranates. Surely all the historians were\nmistaken; the eruption had never taken place, or else the needle of Time\nhad moved backward twenty secular hours upon the dial of Eternity!\n\nIn the climax of his astonishment, Octavian commenced to wonder whether\nhe might not actually be sleeping upon his feet, and walking in a dream.\nHe even seriously asked himself whether madness might not be parading\nits hallucinations before his eyes; but he soon felt himself compelled\nto admit that he was neither asleep nor mad.\n\nA singular change had taken place in the atmosphere. Vague rose-tints\nwere blending through brightening shades of violet with the faintly\nazure tints of moonlight; the sky commenced to glow brightly along its\nborders; daylight seemed about to dawn. Octavian took out his watch: it\nmarked the hour of midnight. Fearing that it might have stopped, he\npressed the spring of the repeating mechanism. It struck twelve times.\nIt was midnight beyond a doubt, and yet the brightness ever increased.\nThe moon sank through the azure which became momentarily more and more\nluminous. The sun rose!\n\nThen Octavian, to whom all ideas of time had become hopelessly confused,\nwas able to convince himself that he was walking, not through a dead\nPompeii, the chill corpse of a city half-shrouded, but through a living,\nyouthful, intact Pompeii over which the torrents of burning mud from\nVesuvius had never flowed.\n\nAn inconceivable prodigy had transported him, a Frenchman of the\nnineteenth century, back to the age of Titus, not in spirit only, but in\nreality; or else had called up before him from the depths of the past a\ndesolated city with its vanished inhabitants, for a man clothed in the\nantique fashion had just passed out of a neighboring house.\n\nThis man wore his hair short, and his face was closely shaven; he was\ndressed in a brown tunic and a grayish mantle, the ends of which were\nwell tucked up so as not to impede his movements. He walked at a rapid\ngait, bordering upon a run, and passed by Octavian without perceiving\nhim. He carried on his arm a basket made of Spanish broom, and\nproceeded toward the Forum Nundinarium. He was evidently a slave, some\nDavus, going to market beyond a doubt.\n\nThe noise of wheels became audible, and an antique wagon, drawn by white\noxen and loaded with vegetables, came along the street. Beside the team\nwalked a peasant--with legs bare and sunburnt, and feet\nsandal-shod--who was clad in a sort of canvas shirt puffed out about the\nwaist; a conical straw hat hanging at his shoulders, and depending from\nhis neck by the chin-band, left his face exposed to view--a type of face\nunknown in these days--a forehead low and traversed by salient, knotty\nlines, hair black and curly, eyes tranquil as those of his oxen, and a\nneck like that of the rustic Hercules. As he gravely pricked his animals\nwith the goad, his statuesque attitudes would have thrown Ingres into\necstasy.\n\nThe peasant perceived Octavian and appeared surprised, but he proceeded\non his way without being able, doubtless, to find any explanation for\nthe appearance of this strange-looking personage, and in his rustic\nsimplicity willingly leaving the solution of the enigma to those wiser\nthan himself.\n\nCampanian peasants also appeared on the scene, driving before them asses\nladen with skins of wine, and ringing their brazen bells. Their\nphysiognomies differed from those of the modern peasants as a medallion\ndiffers from a son.\n\nGradually the city became peopled, like one of those panoramic pictures\nat first desolate, but which by a sudden change of light become animated\nwith personages previously invisible.\n\nOctavian's feelings had undergone a change. Only a short time before,\namid the deceitful shadows of the night, he had fallen a prey to that\nuneasiness from which the bravest are not exempt amid such disquieting\nand fantastic surroundings as reason cannot explain. His vague terror\nhad ultimately yielded to a profound stupefaction. The distinctness of\nhis perceptions forbade him to doubt the testimony of his senses, yet\nwhat he beheld seemed altogether contrary to reason. Feeling still but\nhalf convinced, he sought by the authentication of minor actual details\nto assure himself that he was not the victim of hallucination. Those\nfigures which passed before his eyes could not be phantoms, for the\nliving sun shone upon them with unmistakable reality, and their shadows,\nelongated in the morning light, fell upon the pavement and the walls.\n\nWithout the faintest understanding of what had befallen him, Octavian,\nravished with delight to find one of his most cherished dreams realized,\nno longer attempted to resist the fate of his adventure. He abandoned\nhimself to the mystery of these marvels without any further attempt to\nexplain them; he averred to himself that since he had been permitted, by\nvirtue of some mysterious power, to live for a few hours in a vanished\nage, he would not waste time in efforts to solve an incomprehensible\nproblem, and he proceeded fearlessly gazing to right and left upon this\nscene at once so old and yet so new to him. But to what epoch of\nPompeiian life had he been transported? An \u00e6dile inscription engraved\nupon a wall showed him by the names of public personages there recorded,\nthat it was about the commencement of the reign of Titus, or in the\nyear 79 of our own era. A sudden thought flashed across Octavian's mind.\nThe woman whose mould he had seen in the museum at Naples must be\nliving, inasmuch as the eruption of Vesuvius by which she had perished\ntook place on the 24th of August in this very year: he might therefore\ndiscover her, behold her, speak to her!... The mad longing which had\nseized him at the sight of that mass of cinders moulded upon a divinely\nperfect form, was perhaps about to be fully satisfied, for surely naught\ncould be impossible to a love which had had the strength to make Time\nitself recoil, and the same hour to pass twice through the sand-glass of\nEternity!\n\nWhile Octavian was abandoning himself to these reflections, beautiful\nyoung girls were passing by on their way to the fountains, all balancing\nurns upon their heads with their white finger-tips, and patricians clad\nin white togas bordered with purple bands were proceeding toward the\nForum, each followed by an escort of clients. The buyers commenced to\nthrong about the booths, which were all designated by sculptured or\npictured signs, and recalled by reason of their shape and small\ndimensions the moresque booths of Algiers. Over most of them a glorious\nphallus of baked and painted clay, together with the inscription, _Hic\nhabitat Felicitas_, testified to superstitious precautions against the\nevil eye. Octavian also noticed an amulet shop, whose shelves were\nstocked with horns, bifurcated branches of coral, and little figures of\nPriapus in gold, like those worn in Naples even at this day as a\nsafeguard against the _jettatura_, and he thought to himself that a\nsuperstition often outlives a religion.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFollowing the sidewalk which borders each street in Pompeii (and\ndeprives the English of all claim to this invention), Octavian suddenly\nfound himself face to face with a beautiful young man of about his own\nage, clad in a saffron-colored tunic, and a mantle of snowy linen as\nsupple as cashmere. The sight of Octavian in his frightful modern hat,\ngirthed about with a scanty black frock-coat, his legs confined in\npantaloons, and his feet cramped in well-polished boots, seemed to\nsurprise the young Pompeiian in much the same way as one of us would\nfeel astonished to meet on the Boulevard de Gand some Iowa Indian or\nnative of Butocudo, bedecked with his feathers, necklace of\nbear's-claws, or whimsical tattooing. Nevertheless, being a well-bred\nyoung man, he did not burst out laughing in Octavian's face, and pitying\nthe poor barbarian who had lost his way, no doubt, in that Gr\u00e6co-Roman\ncity, he said to him in a soft, clear voice: \"_Advena, salve!_\"\n\nNothing could be more natural than that an inhabitant of Pompeii, in the\nreign of the divine, most powerful, and most august Emperor Titus,\nshould speak Latin, yet Octavian started at hearing this dead tongue in\na living mouth. It was then, indeed, that he congratulated himself on\nhaving been proficient in his college studies, and taken the honors at\nthe annual examinations. The Latin taught him by the University served\nhim in good stead on that unique occasion, and calling back to mind some\nsouvenirs of his college course, he returned the salutation of the\nPompeiian after the style of _De viris illustribus_ and _Select\u00e6 e\nprofanis_, in a tolerably intelligible manner, but with a Parisian\naccent which forced the young man to smile despite himself.\n\n\"Perhaps it will be easier for you to converse in Greek,\" said the\nPompeiian. \"I am also acquainted with that language, for I studied at\nAthens.\"\n\n\"I am even less familiar with Greek than with Latin,\" replied Octavian.\n\"I am from the land of Gaul--from Paris--from Lutetia.\"\n\n\"I know that country. My grandfather served under the great Julius\nC\u00e6sar in the Gallic wars. But what a strange dress you wear! The Gauls\nwhom I saw at Rome were not thus attired.\"\n\nOctavian attempted to explain to the young Pompeiian that twenty\ncenturies had rolled by since the conquest of Gaul by Julius C\u00e6sar, and\nthat the fashions had changed; but he forgot his Latin, and indeed, to\ntell the truth, he had but little to forget.\n\n\"My name is Rufus Holconius, and my house is at your service,\" said the\nyoung man, \"unless, indeed, you prefer the freedom of the tavern. It is\nhard by the public-house of Albinus, near the gate of the suburb of\nAugustus Felix and the Inn of Sarinus, son of Publius, just at the\nsecond turn; but if you wish, I will be your guide through this city, in\nwhich you do not seem to be acquainted. Young barbarian, I like you,\nalthough you endeavored to impose upon my credulity by pretending that\nthe Emperor Titus, who now reigns, died two thousand years ago, and that\nthe Nazarean (whose infamous followers were plastered with pitch and\nburned to illuminate Nero's gardens) rules sole master of the deserted\nheavens whence the great gods have fallen! By Pollux!\" he continued as\nhis eyes fell upon a rubric inscription at a street-corner, \"you have\njust come in good time. The _Casina_ of Plautus, which has quite\nrecently been put upon the stage, will be played to-day. It is a curious\nand laughable comedy which will amuse you, even if you only comprehend\nthe pantomime of it. Come with me. It is nearly time for the play\nalready. I will find you a place in the seat set apart for guests and\nstrangers.\" And Rufus Holconius led the way toward the little comic\ntheatre which the three friends had visited during the day.\n\nThe Frenchman and the citizen of Pompeii proceeded along the Street of\nthe Fountains of Abundance and the Street of the Theatres, passing by\nthe College, the Temple of Isis, and the Studio of the Sculptor, and\nentered the Odeon or Comic Theatre by a lateral vomitory. Through the\nrecommendations of Holconius, Octavian obtained a seat near the\nproscenium in a part of the theatre corresponding to our private boxes\nwhich front upon the stage. All eyes were immediately turned upon him\nwith good-natured curiosity, and a low whispering arose all through the\namphitheatre.\n\nThe play had not yet commenced, and Octavian profited by the interval to\nexamine the building. The semicircular seats, terminated at either end\nby a magnificent lion's paw sculptured in Vesuvian lava, receded,\nbroadening as they rose, from an empty space corresponding to our\n_parterre_, but much narrower and paved in mosaic with Greek marble.\nThe rows of seats widened above one another in regular gradation\naccording to distance, and four stairways, corresponding with the\nvomitories, and sloping from the base to the summit of the amphitheatre,\ndivided it into five _cunei_ or wedge-shaped compartments, with the\nbroad end uppermost. The spectators, all furnished with tickets\nconsisting of little slips of ivory, upon which were indicated in\nnumerical order the row, division, and seat, together with the name of\nthe play and its author, took their places without confusion. The\nmagistrates, nobility, married men, young folks, and the soldiers--who\nattracted attention by the gleaming of their bronze helmets--all\noccupied different rows of seats.\n\nIt was an admirable spectacle. Those beautiful togas and great white\nmantles displayed in the first row of seats, contrasting with the\nvari-colored garments of the women seated in the circle above, and the\ngray capes of the populace who were assigned to the upper benches near\nthe columns which supported the roof, and between which were visible\nglimpses of a sky intensely blue as the azure background of the\nPanathen\u00e6a.\n\nA fine spray aromatized with saffron fell from the friezes above in\nimperceptible mist, at once cooling and purifying the air. Octavian\nthought of the fetid emanations which vitiate the atmosphere of our\nmodern theatres--theatres so uncomfortable that they may justly be\nconsidered places of torture rather than places of amusement, and he\nfound that modern civilization had not, after all, made much progress.\n\nThe curtain, sustained by a transverse beam, sank into the depths of the\norchestra; the musicians took their seats, and the Prologue appeared in\ngrotesque attire, his face concealed by a frightful mask which fitted\nthe head like a helmet.\n\nHaving saluted the audience and demanded applause, the Prologue\ncommenced a merry argumentation. Old plays, he said, were like old wine\nwhich improves with age; and _Casina_, so dear to the old, should not be\nless so to the young: all could take pleasure in it, some because they\nwere familiar with it, others because they were not. Moreover, the play\nhad been carefully remounted, and should be heard with a cheerful mind,\nwithout thinking about one's debts or one's creditors, for people were\nnot liable to be arrested at the theatre. It was a happy day, the\nweather was fair, and the halcyons hovered over the Forum.\n\nThen he gave an analysis of the comedy about to be performed by the\nactors, with that minuteness of detail which shows how little the\nelement of surprise entered into the theatrical pleasures of the\nancient. He told how the aged Stalino, being enamored of his beautiful\nslave Casina, desired to marry her to his farmer Olympio, a complaisant\nspouse whose place he himself would fill on the nuptial night; and how\nLycostrata, wife of Stalino, in order to thwart the luxury of her\nvicious husband, sought to unite Casina in marriage to the groom\nChalinus with the further idea of favoring the amours of her son--in\nfine, how the deceived Stalino mistook a young slave in disguise for\nCasina, who, being discovered to be free, and of free birth, espouses\nthe young master whom she loves and by whom she is beloved.\n\nAs in a reverie, the young Frenchman watched the actors with their\nbronze-mouthed masks, exerting themselves upon the stage; the slaves ran\nhither and thither, feigning great haste; the old man wagged his head\nand extended his trembling hand; the matron with high words and scornful\nmien strutted in her importance and quarrelled with her husband, to the\ngreat delight of the audience. All these personages made their entrances\nand exits through three doors contrived in the foundation-wall and\ncommunicating with the green-room of the actors. The house of Stalino\noccupied one corner of the stage, and that of his old friend Alcesimus\nfaced it on the opposite side. These decorations, although very well\npainted, represented the idea of a place rather than the place itself,\nlike most of the vague scenery of the classic theatres.\n\nWhen the nuptial procession, pompously escorting the false Casina,\nentered upon the stage, a mighty burst of laughter, such as Homer\nattributes to the gods, rang through all the amphitheatre, and thunders\nof applause evoked the vibrating echoes of the enclosure, but Octavian\nheard no more and saw no more of the play.\n\nIn the circle of seats occupied by the women, he had just beheld a\ncreature of marvellous beauty. From that moment all the other charming\nfaces which had attracted his attention became eclipsed as the stars\nbefore the face of Ph\u0153bus--all vanished, all disappeared as in a dream;\na mist clouded the circles of seats with their swarming multitudes, and\nthe high-pitched voices of the actors seemed lost in infinite distance.\n\nHis heart received a sudden shock as of electricity, and it seemed to\nhim that sparks flew from his breast when the eyes of that woman turned\nupon him.\n\nShe was dark and pale. Her locks, crisp-flowing and black as the tresses\nof Night, streamed backward over her temples after the fashion of the\nGreeks, and in her pallid face beamed soft, melancholy eyes, heavy with\nan indefinable expression of voluptuous sadness and passionate _ennui_.\nHer mouth, with its disdainful curves, protested by the living warmth of\nits burning crimson against the tranquil pallor of her cheeks, and the\ncurves of her neck presented those pure and beautiful outlines now to be\nfound only in statues. Her arms were naked to the shoulder, and from the\npeaks of her splendid bosom, which betrayed its superb curves beneath a\nmauve-rose tunic, fell two graceful folds of drapery that seemed to have\nbeen sculptured in marble by Phidias or Cleomenes.\n\nThe sight of that bosom, so faultless in contour, so pure in its\noutlines, magnetically affected Octavian. It seemed to him that those\nrich curves corresponded perfectly to that hollow mould in the museum at\nNaples which had thrown him into so ardent a reverie, and from the\ndepths of his heart a voice cried out to him that this woman was indeed\nthe same who had been suffocated in the villa of Arrius Diomedes by the\ncinders of Vesuvius. What prodigy, then, enabled him to behold her\nliving, and witnessing the performance of the _Casina_ of Plautus? But\nhe forbore to seek an explanation of the problem. For that matter, how\ndid he himself happen to be there? He accepted the fact of his presence\nas in dreams we never question the intervention of persons actually\nlong dead, but who seem to act nevertheless like living people; besides,\nhis emotion forbade him to reason. For him the Wheel of Time had left\nits track, and his all-conquering love had chosen its place among the\nages passed away. He found himself face to face with his chimera, one of\nthe most unattainable of all, a retrospective chimera. The cup of his\nwhole life had in a single instant been filled to overflowing.\n\nWhile gazing upon that face, at once so calm and passionate, so cold and\nyet so replete with warmth, so dead, yet so radiant with life, he felt\nthat he beheld before him his first and last love, his cup of supreme\nintoxication; he felt all the memories of all the women whom he ever\nbelieved that he had loved, vanish like impalpable shadows, and his\nheart became once more virginally pure of all anterior passion. The past\nwas dead within him.\n\nMeanwhile the fair Pompeiian, resting her chin upon the palm of her\nhand, turned upon Octavian, though feigning the while to be absorbed in\nthe performance, the velvet gaze of her nocturnal eyes, and that look\nfell upon him heavy and burning as a jet of molten lead. Then she turned\nto whisper some words in the ear of a maid seated at her side.\n\nThe performance closed. The crowd poured out of the theatre through the\nvomitories, and Octavian, disdaining the kindly offices of his friend\nHolconius, rushed to the nearest door-way. He had scarcely reached the\nentrance when a hand was lightly laid upon his arm, and a feminine voice\nexclaimed in tones at once low yet so distinct that not a syllable\nescaped him:\n\n\"I am Tyche Novaleia, entrusted with the pleasures of Arria Marcella,\ndaughter of Arrius Diomedes. My mistress loves you. Follow me.\"\n\nArria Marcella had just entered her litter, borne by four strong Syrian\nslaves, naked to the waist, whose bronze torsos shone under the\nsunlight. The curtain of the litter was drawn aside, and a pale hand,\nstarred with brilliant rings, waved a friendly signal to Octavian, as\nthough in confirmation of the attendant's words. Then the purple folds\nof the curtain fell again, and the litter was borne away to the\nrhythmical sound of the footsteps of the slaves.\n\nTyche conducted Octavian along winding byways, tripping lightly across\nthe streets over the stepping-stones which connected the foot-paths, and\nbetween which the wheels of the chariots rolled, wending her way through\nthe labyrinth with that certainty which bears witness to thorough\nfamiliarity with a city. Octavian noticed that he was traversing\nportions of Pompeii which had never been excavated, and which were in\nconsequence totally unknown to him. Among so many other equally strange\ncircumstances, this caused him no astonishment. He had made up his mind\nto be astonished at nothing. Amid all this archaic phantasmagory, which\nwould have driven an antiquarian mad with joy, he no longer saw anything\nsave the dark, deep eyes of Arria Marcella, and that superb bosom which\nhad vanquished even Time, and which Destruction itself had sought to\npreserve.\n\nThey arrived at last before a private gate which opened to admit them,\nand closed again as soon as they had entered, and Octavian found\nhimself in a court surrounded by Ionic columns of Greek marble, painted\nbright yellow for half their height and crowned with capitals relieved\nwith blue and red ornaments. A wreath of aristolochia suspended its\ngreat green heart-shaped leaves from the projections of the architecture\nlike a natural arabesque, and near a marble basin framed in plants one\nflaming rose towered on a single stalk--a plume-flower in the midst of\nnatural flowers. The walls were adorned with panelled fresco-work,\nrepresenting fanciful architecture or imaginary landscape views.\n\nOctavian obtained only a hurried glance at all these details, for Tyche\nimmediately placed him in the hands of the slaves who had charge of the\nbath, and who subjected him, notwithstanding his impatience, to all the\nrefinements of the antique _therm\u00e6._ After having submitted to the\nseveral necessary degrees of vapor-heat, endured the scraper of the\n_strigillarius_, and felt cosmetics and perfumed oils poured over him in\nstreams, he was reclothed with a white tunic, and again met Tyche at the\nopposite door, who took him by the hand and conducted him into another\napartment gorgeously decorated.\n\nUpon the ceiling were painted, with a purity of design, brilliancy of\ncolor, and freedom of touch which bespoke the hand of a great master\nrather than of the mere ordinary decorator, Mars, Venus, and Love. A\nfrieze composed of deer, hares, and birds, disporting themselves amid\nrich foliage, ran around the apartment above a wainscoting of cipollino\nmarble; the mosaic pavement, a marvellous work from the hand, perhaps,\nof Sosimus of Pergamos, represented banquet-scenes in relief, with a\nperfection of art which deluded the eye.\n\nAt the further end of the hall, upon a biclinium, or double couch,\nreclined Arria Marcella in an attitude which recalled the reclining\nwoman of Phidias, upon the pediment of the Parthenon. Her\npearl-embroidered shoes lay at the foot of the couch, and her beautiful\nbare foot, purer and whiter than marble, extended from beneath the light\ncovering of byssus which had been thrown over her.\n\nTwo earrings, fashioned in the form of balance-scales, and bearing\npearls in either scale, trembled in the light against her pale cheeks. A\nnecklace of golden balls, with pear-shaped pendants attached, hung down\nupon her bosom, which the negligent folds of a straw-colored peplum,\nwith a Greek border in black lines, had left half uncovered; a gold and\nblack fillet passed and glittered here and there through her ebon\ntresses, for she had changed her dress upon returning from the theatre,\nand around her arm, like the asp about the arm of Cleopatra, a golden\nserpent with jewelled eyes entwined itself in many folds and sought to\nbite its own tail.\n\nClose by the double couch had been placed a little table, supported upon\ngriffins' paws, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and freighted with\ndifferent viands served upon dishes of silver and gold, or of\nearthenware enamelled with costly paintings. A Phasian bird, cooked in\nits plumage, was visible, and also various fruits which are seldom seen\ntogether in any one season.\n\nEverything seemed to indicate that a guest was expected. The floor had\nbeen strewn with fresh flowers, and the amphor\u00e6 of wine were plunged\ninto urns filled with snow.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nArria Marcella made a sign to Octavian to lie down upon the biclinium\nbeside her and share her repast. Half-maddened with astonishment and\nlove, the young man took at random a few mouthfuls from the plates\nextended to him by little curly-haired Asiatic slaves, who wore short\ntunics. Arria did not eat, but she frequently raised to her lips an\nopal-tinted myrrhine vase filled with a wine darkly purple like\nthickened blood. As she drank an imperceptible rosy vapor mounted to her\ncheeks from her heart, the heart that had never throbbed for so many\ncenturies; nevertheless, her bare arm, which Octavian lightly touched in\nthe act of raising his cup, was cold as the skin of a serpent or the\nmarble of a tomb.\n\n\"Ah, when you paused in the Studii Museum to contemplate the mass of\nhardened clay which still preserves my form,\" exclaimed Arria Marcella,\nturning her long, liquid eyes upon Octavian, \"and your thoughts were\nardently directed to me, my spirit felt it in that world where I float,\ninvisible to vulgar eyes. Faith makes God, and love makes woman. One is\ntruly dead only when one is no longer loved. Your desire has restored\nlife to me. The mighty invocation of your heart overcame the dim\ndistances that separated us.\"\n\nThe idea of amorous invocation which the young woman spoke of entered\ninto the philosophic beliefs of Octavian, beliefs which we ourselves are\nnot far from sharing.\n\nIn effect, nothing dies; all things are eternal. No power can annihilate\nthat which once had being. Every action, every word, every thought which\nhas fallen into the universal ocean of being, therein creates circles\nwhich travel, and increase in travelling, even to the confines of\neternity. To vulgar eyes only do natural forms disappear, and the\nspectres which have thence detached themselves people Infinity. Paris,\nin some unknown region of space, continues to carry off Helen. The\ngalley of Cleopatra still floats down with swelling sails of silk upon\nthe azure current of an ideal Cydnus. A few passionate and powerful\nminds have been able to recall before them ages apparently long passed\naway, and to restore to life personages dead to all the world beside.\nFaust has had for his mistress the daughter of Tyndarus, and conducted\nher to his Gothic castle in the depths of the mysterious abysses of\nHades. Octavian had been able to live a day under the reign of Titus,\nand to make himself beloved of Arria Marcella, daughter of Arrius\nDiomedes, she who was at that moment lying upon an antique couch beside\nhim in a city destroyed for all the rest of the world.\n\n\"From my disgust with other women,\" replied Octavian, \"from the\nunconquerable reverie which attracted me toward its radiant shapes as to\nstars that lure on, I knew that I could never love save beyond the\nconfines of Time and Space. It was you that I awaited; and that frail\nvestige of your being, preserved by the curiosity of men, has by its\nsecret magnetism placed me in communication with your spirit. I know not\nif you be a dream or a reality, a phantom or a woman; if, like Ixion, I\npress but a cloud to my cheated breast; if I am only the victim of some\nvile spell of sorcery--but what I do truly know is that you will be my\nfirst and my last love.\"\n\n\"May Eros, son of Aphrodite, hear your promise,\" returned Arria\nMarcella, dropping her head upon the shoulder of her lover, who lifted\nher in a passionate embrace. \"Oh, press me to your young breast! Envelop\nme with your warm breath. I am cold through having remained so long\nwithout love.\" And against his heart Octavian felt that beautiful bosom\nrise and fall, whose mould he had that very morning admired through the\nglass of a cabinet in the museum. The coolness of that beautiful flesh\npenetrated him through his tunic and made him burn. The gold and black\nfillet had become detached from Arria's head, passionately thrown back,\nand her hair streamed like a black river over the purple pillow.\n\nThe slaves had removed the table. A confused sound of sighs and kisses\nwas alone audible. The pet quails, indifferent to this amorous scene,\nplundered the crumbs of the banquet upon the mosaic pavement, uttering\nsharp little cries.\n\nSuddenly the brazen rings of the curtain which closed the entrance to\nthe apartment slided back upon the curtain-rod, and an aged man of stern\ndemeanor and wrapped in a great brown mantle appeared upon the\nthreshold. His gray beard was divided into two points after the manner\nof the Nazareans. His face seemed furrowed by the suffering of ascetic\nmortifications, and a little cross of black wood was suspended from his\nneck, leaving no doubt as to his faith. He belonged to the sect, then\nnew, of the Disciples of Christ.\n\nOn perceiving him, Arria Marcella, overwhelmed with confusion, hid her\nface in the folds of her mantle, like a bird which puts its head under\nits wing at the approach of an enemy from whom it cannot escape, to save\nitself at least from the horror of seeing him, while Octavian, rising on\nhis elbow, stared fixedly at the provoking being who had thus abruptly\ninterrupted his happiness.\n\n\"Arria, Arria!\" exclaimed the austere personage in a voice of reproach,\n\"did not your lifetime suffice for your misconduct, and must your\ninfamous amours encroach upon centuries to which they do not belong? Can\nyou not leave the living in their sphere? Have not your ashes cooled\nsince the day when you perished unrepentant beneath the rain of volcanic\nfire? So, then, even two thousand years have not sufficed to calm your\npassion, and your voracious arms still draw to your heartless breast of\nmarble the poor mad-men whom your philters have intoxicated!\"\n\n\"Arrius, father, mercy! Do not crush me in the name of that morose\nreligion which was never mine! I believed in our ancient gods, who loved\nlife and youth and beauty and pleasure. Do not hurl me back into pale\nnothingness! Let me enjoy this life that love has given back to me!\"\n\n\"Silence, impious woman! Speak not to me of your gods, which are demons.\nLet this man, whom you have fettered with your impure seductions, depart\nhence. Draw him no more beyond the circle of that life which God\nmeasured out for him. Return to the Limbo of paganism with your Asiatic,\nRoman, or Greek lovers. Young Christian, forsake that larva, who would\nseem to you more hideous than Empousa or Phorkyas, could you but see her\nas she is!\"\n\nPale and frozen with horror, Octavian tried to speak, but his voice\nclung to his throat, according to the expression of Virgil.\n\n\"Will you obey me, Arria?\" imperiously cried the tall old man.\n\n\"No, never!\" responded Arria, with flashing eyes, dilated nostrils, and\npassion-trembling lips, as she suddenly encircled the body of Octavian\nwith her beautiful statuesque arms, cold, hard, and rigid as marble. Her\nfurious beauty, enhanced by the struggle, shone forth at that supreme\nmoment with supernatural brightness, as though to leave its imperishable\nsouvenir with her young lover.\n\n\"Then, unhappy woman,\" exclaimed the old man, \"I must needs employ\nextreme measures, and render your nothingness palpable and visible to\nthis fascinated child.\" And in a voice of command he pronounced a\nformula of exorcism that banished from Arria's cheeks the purple tints\nwith which the black wine from the myrrhine vase had suffused them.\n\nAt the same moment the distant bell of one of those hamlets which border\nthe sea-coast, or lie hidden in the mountain hollows, rang out the first\npeal of the angelus.\n\nA sob of agony burst from the broken heart of the young woman at that\nsound. Octavian felt her encircling arms untwine, the draperies which\ncovered her sank fold on fold, as though the contours which sustained\nthem had suddenly given way, and the wretched night-walker beheld on the\nbanquet-couch beside him only a handful of cinders mingled with a few\nfragments of calcined bones, among which gold bracelets and jewelry\nglittered, together with such other shapeless remains as were found in\nexcavating the villa of Arrius Diomedes.\n\nHe uttered one fearful cry and became insensible.\n\nThe old man had disappeared, the sun rose, and the hall, so brilliantly\ndecorated but a short time before, became only a dismantled ruin.\n\nAfter a heavy slumber, inspired by the libations of the previous\nevening, Max and Fabio started from their sleep, and at once called\ntheir comrade, whose room adjoined their own, with one of those\nburlesque rallying cries which are so commonly made use of by\ntravellers. Octavian, for the best of reasons, returned no answer. Fabio\nand Max, hearing no response, entered their friend's chamber and\nperceived that the bed had not been disturbed.\n\n\"He must have fallen asleep in some chair,\" said Fabio, \"without being\nable to get to bed, for our good Octavian cannot bear much liquor; and\nmost likely he is taking an early walk to dissipate the fumes of the\nwine in the fresh morning air.\"\n\n\"But he did not drink much,\" returned Max, in a thoughtful manner. \"All\nthis seems very strange to me. Let us go and find him!\"\n\nAccompanied by the cicerone, the two friends searched all the streets,\nsquares, cross-roads, and alleys of Pompeii, entering every curious\nbuilding where they thought Octavian might be occupied in copying a\npainting or taking down an inscription, and finally discovered him lying\ninsensible upon the disjointed mosaic pavement of a small ruined\nchamber. They had much difficulty in restoring him to consciousness, and\non reviving, his only explanation of the circumstance was that he had\ntaken a fancy to see Pompeii by moonlight, and had been seized with a\nsudden faintness, which would doubtless result in nothing serious.\n\nThe little party returned by rail to Naples, as they had come, and the\nsame evening, from their private box at the San Carlo, Max and Fabio\nwatched through their opera glasses a troupe of nymphs dancing in a\nballet, under the leadership of Amalia Ferraris, the _danseuse_ then in\nvogue, all wearing under their gauzy skirts frightful green drawers,\nwhich made them look like so many frogs stung by a tarantula. Pale, with\nwoful eyes, and the general air of one crushed by suffering, Octavian\nseemed to doubt the reality of what transpired upon the stage, so\ndifficult did he find it to resume the sentiments of real life after the\nmarvellous adventures of the night.\n\nFrom the time of that visit to Pompeii Octavian fell into a dismal\nmelancholy, which the good-humored pleasantry of his companions rather\naggravated than soothed. The image of Arria Marcella haunted him\nincessantly, and the sad termination of his fantastic good fortune had\nnever destroyed its charm.\n\nUnable to contain his misery, he returned secretly to Pompeii, and once\nagain wandered among the ruins by moonlight as before, his heart\npalpitating with maddening hope; but the hallucination never returned.\nHe saw only the lizards fleeing over the stones, he heard only the\nscreams of the startled night-birds. He met his friend Rufus Holconius\nno more, Tyche came not to lay her supple hand upon his arm, Arria\nMarcella obstinately slumbered in her dust.\n\nAbandoning all hope, Octavian finally married a charming young English\ngirl, who is madly in love with him. He is perfectly well behaved to his\nwife, yet Ellen, with that subtle instinct of the heart which nothing\ncan deceive, feels that her husband is enamored of another. But of whom?\nThat is a mystery which the most unflagging watchfulness cannot enable\nher to unravel. Octavian never entertains actresses. In society he\naddresses to women only the most commonplace gallantries. He even\nreturned with the greatest coldness the marked advances of a certain\nRussian princess celebrated for her beauty and her coquetry. A secret\ndrawer, opened during her husband's absence, afforded no confirmation of\ninfidelity to Ellen's suspicions. But how could she permit herself to be\njealous of Arria Marcella, daughter of Arrius Diomedes, the freedman of\nTiberius?\n\n\n\n\nTHE MUMMY'S FOOT\n\n\n\nI had entered, in an idle mood, the shop of one of those curiosity\nvenders who are called _marchands de bric-\u00e0-brac_ in that Parisian\n_argot_ which is so perfectly unintelligible elsewhere in France.\n\nYou have doubtless glanced occasionally through the windows of some of\nthese shops, which have become so numerous now that it is fashionable to\nbuy antiquated furniture, and that every petty stockbroker thinks he\nmust have his _chambre au moyen \u00e2ge_.\n\nThere is one thing there which clings alike to the shop of the dealer in\nold iron, the ware-room of the tapestry maker, the laboratory of the\nchemist, and the studio of the painter: in all those gloomy dens where a\nfurtive daylight filters in through the window-shutters the most\nmanifestly ancient thing is dust. The cobwebs are more authentic than\nthe guimp laces, and the old pear-tree furniture on exhibition is\nactually younger than the mahogany which arrived but yesterday from\nAmerica.\n\nThe warehouse of my bric-\u00e0-brac dealer was a veritable Capharnaum. All\nages and all nations seemed to have made their rendezvous there. An\nEtruscan lamp of red clay stood upon a Boule cabinet, with ebony panels,\nbrightly striped by lines of inlaid brass; a duchess of the court of\nLouis XV. nonchalantly extended her fawn-like feet under a massive table\nof the time of Louis XIII., with heavy spiral supports of oak, and\ncarven designs of chimeras and foliage intermingled.\n\nUpon the denticulated shelves of several sideboards glittered immense\nJapanese dishes with red and blue designs relieved by gilded hatching,\nside by side with enamelled works by Bernard Palissy, representing\nserpents, frogs, and lizards in relief.\n\nFrom disembowelled cabinets escaped cascades of silver-lustrous Chinese\nsilks and waves of tinsel, which an oblique sunbeam shot through with\nluminous beads, while portraits of every era, in frames more or less\ntarnished, smiled through their yellow varnish.\n\nThe striped breastplate of a damascened suit of Milanese armor glittered\nin one corner; loves and nymphs of porcelain, Chinese grotesques, vases\nof _c\u00e9ladon_ and crackle-ware, Saxon and old S\u00e8vres cups encumbered the\nshelves and nooks of the apartment.\n\nThe dealer followed me closely through the tortuous way contrived\nbetween the piles of furniture, warding off with his hand the hazardous\nsweep of my coat-skirts, watching my elbows with the uneasy attention of\nan antiquarian and a usurer.\n\nIt was a singular face, that of the merchant; an immense skull, polished\nlike a knee, and surrounded by a thin aureole of white hair, which\nbrought out the clear salmon tint of his complexion all the more\nstrikingly, lent him a false aspect of patriarchal _bonhomie_,\ncounteracted, however, by the scintillation of two little yellow eyes\nwhich trembled in their orbits like two louis-d'or upon quicksilver. The\ncurve of his nose presented an aquiline silhouette, which suggested the\nOriental or Jewish type. His hands--thin, slender, full of nerves which\nprojected like strings upon the finger-board of a violin, and armed with\nclaws like those on the terminations of bats' wings--shook with senile\ntrembling; but those convulsively agitated hands became firmer than\nsteel pincers or lobsters' claws when they lifted any precious\narticle--an onyx cup, a Venetian glass, or a dish of Bohemian crystal.\nThis strange old man had an aspect so thoroughly rabbinical and\ncabalistic that he would have been burnt on the mere testimony of his\nface three centuries ago.\n\n\"Will you not buy something from me to-day, sir? Here is a Malay kreese\nwith a blade undulating like flame. Look at those grooves contrived for\nthe blood to run along, those teeth set backward so as to tear out the\nentrails in withdrawing the weapon. It is a fine character of ferocious\narm, and will look well in your collection. This two-handed sword is\nvery beautiful. It is the work of Josepe de la Hera; and this\n_colichemarde,_ with its fenestrated guard--what a superb specimen of\nhandicraft!\"\n\n\"No; I have quite enough weapons and instruments of carnage. I want a\nsmall figure, something which will suit me as a paper-weight, for I\ncannot endure those trumpery bronzes which the stationers sell, and\nwhich may be found on everybody's desk.\"\n\nThe old gnome foraged among his ancient wares, and finally arranged\nbefore me some antique bronzes, so-called at least; fragments of\nmalachite, little Hindoo or Chinese idols, a kind of poussah-toys in\njade-stone, representing the incarnations of Brahma or Vishnoo, and\nwonderfully appropriate to the very undivine office of holding papers\nand letters in place.\n\nI was hesitating between a porcelain dragon, all constellated with\nwarts, its mouth formidable with bristling tusks and ranges of teeth,\nand an abominable little Mexican fetich, representing the god\nVitziliputzili _au naturel_, when I caught sight of a charming foot,\nwhich I at first took for a fragment of some antique Venus.\n\nIt had those beautiful ruddy and tawny tints that lend to Florentine\nbronze that warm living look so much preferable to the gray-green\naspect of common bronzes, which might easily be mistaken for statues in\na state of putrefaction. Satiny gleams played over its rounded forms,\ndoubtless polished by the amorous kisses of twenty centuries, for it\nseemed a Corinthian bronze, a work of the best era of art, perhaps\nmoulded by Lysippus himself.\n\n\"That foot will be my choice,\" I said to the merchant, who regarded me\nwith an ironical and saturnine air, and held out the object desired that\nI might examine it more fully.\n\nI was surprised at its lightness. It was not a foot of metal, but in\nsooth a foot of flesh, an embalmed foot, a mummy's foot. On examining it\nstill more closely the very grain of the skin, and the almost\nimperceptible lines impressed upon it by the texture of the bandages,\nbecame perceptible. The toes were slender and delicate, and terminated\nby perfectly formed nails, pure and transparent as agates. The great\ntoe, slightly separated from the rest, afforded a happy contrast, in the\nantique style, to the position of the other toes, and lent it an \u00e6rial\nlightness--the grace of a bird's foot. The sole, scarcely streaked by a\nfew almost imperceptible cross lines, afforded evidence that it had\nnever touched the bare ground, and had only come in contact with the\nfinest matting of Nile rushes and the softest carpets of panther skin.\n\n\"Ha, ha, you want the foot of the Princess Hermonthis!\" exclaimed the\nmerchant, with a strange giggle, fixing his owlish eyes upon me. \"Ha,\nha, ha! For a paper-weight! An original idea!--artistic idea! Old\nPharaoh would certainly have been surprised had some one told him that\nthe foot of his adored daughter would be used for a paper-weight after\nhe had had a mountain of granite hollowed out as a receptacle for the\ntriple coffin, painted and gilded, covered with hieroglyphics and\nbeautiful paintings of the Judgment of Souls,\" continued the queer\nlittle merchant, half audibly, as though talking to himself.\n\n\"How much will you charge me for this mummy fragment?\"\n\n\"Ah, the highest price I can get, for it is a superb piece. If I had\nthe match of it you could not have it for less than five hundred francs.\nThe daughter of a Pharaoh! Nothing is more rare.\"\n\n\"Assuredly that is not a common article, but still, how much do you\nwant? In the first place let me warn you that all my wealth consists of\njust five louis. I can buy anything that costs five louis, but nothing\ndearer. You might search my vest pockets and most secret drawers without\neven finding one poor five-franc piece more.\"\n\n\"Five louis for the foot of the Princess Hermonthis! That is very\nlittle, very little, indeed. 'Tis an authentic foot,\" muttered the\nmerchant, shaking his head, and imparting a peculiar rotary motion to\nhis eyes. \"Well, take it, and I will give you the bandages into the\nbargain,\" he added, wrapping the foot in an ancient damask rag. \"Very\nfine! Real damask--Indian damask which has never been redyed. It is\nstrong, and yet it is soft,\" he mumbled, stroking the frayed tissue with\nhis fingers, through the trade-acquired habit which moved him to praise\neven an object of such little value that he himself deemed it only\nworth the giving away.\n\nHe poured the gold coins into a sort of medi\u00e6val alms-purse hanging at\nhis belt, repeating:\n\n\"The foot of the Princess Hermonthis to be used for a paper-weight!\"\n\nThen turning his phosphorescent eyes upon me, he exclaimed in a voice\nstrident as the crying of a cat which has swallowed a fish-bone:\n\n\"Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased. He loved his daughter, the dear\nman!\"\n\n\"You speak as if you were a contemporary of his. You are old enough,\ngoodness knows! but you do not date back to the Pyramids of Egypt,\" I\nanswered, laughingly, from the threshold.\n\nI went home, delighted with my acquisition.\n\nWith the idea of putting it to profitable use as soon as possible, I\nplaced the foot of the divine Princess Hermonthis upon a heap of papers\nscribbled over with verses, in themselves an undecipherable mosaic work\nof erasures; articles freshly begun; letters forgotten, and posted in\nthe table drawer instead of the letter-box, an error to which\nabsent-minded people are peculiarly liable. The effect was charming,\n_bizarre_, and romantic.\n\nWell satisfied with this embellishment, I went out with the gravity and\npride becoming one who feels that he has the ineffable advantage over\nall the passers-by whom he elbows, of possessing a piece of the Princess\nHermonthis, daughter of Pharaoh.\n\nI looked upon all who did not possess, like myself, a paper-weight so\nauthentically Egyptian as very ridiculous people, and it seemed to me\nthat the proper occupation of every sensible man should consist in the\nmere fact of having a mummy's foot upon his desk.\n\nHappily I met some friends, whose presence distracted me in my\ninfatuation with this new acquisition. I went to dinner with them, for I\ncould not very well have dined with myself.\n\nWhen I came back that evening, with my brain slightly confused by a few\nglasses of wine, a vague whiff of Oriental perfume delicately\ntitillated my olfactory nerves. The heat of the room had warmed the\nnatron, bitumen, and myrrh in which the _paraschistes,_ who cut open the\nbodies of the dead, had bathed the corpse of the princess. It was a\nperfume at once sweet and penetrating, a perfume that four thousand\nyears had not been able to dissipate.\n\nThe Dream of Egypt was Eternity. Her odors have the solidity of granite\nand endure as long.\n\nI soon drank deeply from the black cup of sleep. For a few hours all\nremained opaque to me. Oblivion and nothingness inundated me with their\nsombre waves.\n\nYet light gradually dawned upon the darkness of my mind. Dreams\ncommenced to touch me softly in their silent flight.\n\nThe eyes of my soul were opened, and I beheld my chamber as it actually\nwas. I might have believed myself awake but for a vague consciousness\nwhich assured me that I slept, and that something fantastic was about to\ntake place.\n\nThe odor of the myrrh had augmented in intensity, and I felt a slight\nheadache, which I very naturally attributed to several glasses of\nchampagne that we had drunk to the unknown gods and our future fortunes.\n\nI peered through my room with a feeling of expectation which I saw\nnothing to justify. Every article of furniture was in its proper place.\nThe lamp, softly shaded by its globe of ground crystal, burned upon its\nbracket; the water-color sketches shone under their Bohemian glass; the\ncurtains hung down languidly; everything wore an aspect of tranquil\nslumber.\n\nAfter a few moments, however, all this calm interior appeared to become\ndisturbed. The woodwork cracked stealthily, the ash-covered log suddenly\nemitted a jet of blue flame, and the disks of the pateras seemed like\ngreat metallic eyes, watching, like myself, for the things which were\nabout to happen.\n\nMy eyes accidentally fell upon the desk where I had placed the foot of\nthe Princess Hermonthis.\n\nInstead of remaining quiet, as behooved a foot which had been embalmed\nfor four thousand years, it commenced to act in a nervous manner,\ncontracted itself, and leaped over the papers like a startled frog. One\nwould have imagined that it had suddenly been brought into contact with\na galvanic battery. I could distinctly hear the dry sound made by its\nlittle heel, hard as the hoof of a gazelle.\n\nI became rather discontented with my acquisition, inasmuch as I wished\nmy paper-weights to be of a sedentary disposition, and thought it very\nunnatural that feet should walk about without legs, and I commenced to\nexperience a feeling closely akin to fear.\n\nSuddenly I saw the folds of my bed-curtain stir, and heard a bumping\nsound, like that caused by some person hopping on one foot across the\nfloor. I must confess I became alternately hot and cold, that I felt a\nstrange wind chill my back, and that my suddenly rising hair caused my\nnight-cap to execute a leap of several yards.\n\nThe bed-curtains opened and I beheld the strangest figure imaginable\nbefore me.\n\nIt was a young girl of a very deep coffee-brown complexion, like the\nbayadere Amani, and possessing the purest Egyptian type of perfect\nbeauty. Her eyes were almond-shaped and oblique, with eyebrows so black\nthat they seemed blue; her nose was exquisitely chiselled, almost Greek\nin its delicacy of outline; and she might indeed have been taken for a\nCorinthian statue of bronze but for the prominence of her cheek-bones\nand the slightly African fulness of her lips, which compelled one to\nrecognize her as belonging beyond all doubt to the hieroglyphic race\nwhich dwelt upon the banks of the Nile.\n\nHer arms, slender and spindle-shaped like those of very young girls,\nwere encircled by a peculiar kind of metal bands and bracelets of glass\nbeads; her hair was all twisted into little cords, and she wore upon her\nbosom a little idol-figure of green paste, bearing a whip with seven\nlashes, which proved it to be an image of Isis; her brow was adorned\nwith a shining plate of gold, and a few traces of paint relieved the\ncoppery tint of her cheeks.\n\nAs for her costume, it was very odd indeed.\n\nFancy a _pagne_, or skirt, all formed of little strips of material\nbedizened with red and black hieroglyphics, stiffened with bitumen, and\napparently belonging to a freshly unbandaged mummy.\n\nIn one of those sudden flights of thought so common in dreams I heard\nthe hoarse falsetto of the bric-\u00e0-brac dealer, repeating like a\nmonotonous refrain the phrase he had uttered in his shop with so\nenigmatical an intonation:\n\n\"Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased. He loved his daughter, the dear\nman!\"\n\nOne strange circumstance, which was not at all calculated to restore my\nequanimity, was that the apparition had but one foot; the other was\nbroken off at the ankle!\n\nShe approached the table where the foot was starting and fidgetting\nabout more than ever, and there supported herself upon the edge of the\ndesk. I saw her eyes fill with pearly gleaming tears.\n\nAlthough she had not as yet spoken, I fully comprehended the thoughts\nwhich agitated her. She looked at her foot--for it was indeed her\nown--with an exquisitely graceful expression of coquettish sadness, but\nthe foot leaped and ran hither and thither, as though impelled on steel\nsprings.\n\nTwice or thrice she extended her hand to seize it, but could not\nsucceed.\n\nThen commenced between the Princess Hermonthis and her foot--which\nappeared to be endowed with a special life of its own--a very fantastic\ndialogue in a most ancient Coptic tongue, such as might have been spoken\nthirty centuries ago in the syrinxes of the land of Ser. Luckily I\nunderstood Coptic perfectly well that night.\n\nThe Princess Hermonthis cried, in a voice sweet and vibrant as the tones\nof a crystal bell:\n\n\"Well, my dear little foot, you always flee from me, yet I always took\ngood care of you. I bathed you with perfumed water in a bowl of\nalabaster; I smoothed your heel with pumice-stone mixed with palm oil;\nyour nails were cut with golden scissors and polished with a\nhippopotamus tooth; I was careful to select _tatbebs_ for you, painted\nand embroidered and turned up at the toes, which were the envy of all\nthe young girls in Egypt. You wore on your great toe rings bearing the\ndevice of the sacred Scarab\u00e6us, and you supported one of the lightest\nbodies that a lazy foot could sustain.\"\n\nThe foot replied in a pouting and chagrined tone:\n\n\"You know well that I do not belong to myself any longer. I have been\nbought and paid for. The old merchant knew what he was about. He bore\nyou a grudge for having refused to espouse him. This is an ill turn\nwhich he has done you. The Arab who violated your royal coffin in the\nsubterranean pits of the necropolis of Thebes was sent thither by him.\nHe desired to prevent you from being present at the reunion of the\nshadowy nations in the cities below. Have you five pieces of gold for my\nransom?\"\n\n\"Alas, no! My jewels, my rings, my purses of gold and silver were all\nstolen from me,\" answered the Princess Hermonthis, with a sob.\n\n\"Princess,\" I then exclaimed, \"I never retained anybody's foot unjustly.\nEven though you have not got the five louis which it cost me, I present\nit to you gladly. I should feel unutterably wretched to think that I\nwere the cause of so amiable a person as the Princess Hermonthis being\nlame.\"\n\nI delivered this discourse in a royally gallant, troubadour tone which\nmust have astonished the beautiful Egyptian girl.\n\nShe turned a look of deepest gratitude upon me, and her eyes shone with\nbluish gleams of light.\n\nShe took her foot, which surrendered itself willingly this time, like a\nwoman about to put on her little shoe, and adjusted it to her leg with\nmuch skill.\n\nThis operation over, she took a few steps about the room, as though to\nassure herself that she was really no longer lame.\n\n\"Ah, how pleased my father will be! He who was so unhappy because of my\nmutilation, and who from the moment of my birth set a whole nation at\nwork to hollow me out a tomb so deep that he might preserve me intact\nuntil that last day, when souls must be weighed in the balance of\nAmenthi! Come with me to my father. He will receive you kindly, for you\nhave given me back my foot.\"\n\nI thought this proposition natural enough. I arrayed myself in a\ndressing-gown of large-flowered pattern, which lent me a very Pharaonic\naspect, hurriedly put on a pair of Turkish slippers, and informed the\nPrincess Hermonthis that I was ready to follow her.\n\nBefore starting, Hermonthis took from her neck the little idol of green\npaste, and laid it on the scattered sheets of paper which covered the\ntable.\n\n\"It is only fair,\" she observed, smilingly, \"that I should replace your\npaper-weight.\"\n\nShe gave me her hand, which felt soft and cold, like the skin of a\nserpent, and we departed.\n\nWe passed for some time with the velocity of an arrow through a fluid\nand grayish expanse, in which half-formed silhouettes flitted swiftly by\nus, to right and left.\n\nFor an instant we saw only sky and sea.\n\nA few moments later obelisks commenced to tower in the distance; pylons\nand vast flights of steps guarded by sphinxes became clearly outlined\nagainst the horizon.\n\nWe had reached our destination.\n\nThe princess conducted me to a mountain of rose-colored granite, in the\nface of which appeared an opening so narrow and low that it would have\nbeen difficult to distinguish it from the fissures in the rock, had not\nits location been marked by two stel\u00e6 wrought with sculptures.\n\nHermonthis kindled a torch and led the way before me.\n\nWe traversed corridors hewn through the living rock. Their walls,\ncovered with hieroglyphics and paintings of allegorical processions,\nmight well have occupied thousands of arms for thousands of years in\ntheir formation. These corridors of interminable length opened into\nsquare chambers, in the midst of which pits had been contrived, through\nwhich we descended by cramp-irons or spiral stairways. These pits again\nconducted us into other chambers, opening into other corridors, likewise\ndecorated with painted sparrow-hawks, serpents coiled in circles, the\nsymbols of the _tau_ and _pedum_--prodigious works of art which no\nliving eye can ever examine--interminable legends of granite which only\nthe dead have time to read through all eternity.\n\nAt last we found ourselves in a hall so vast, so enormous, so\nimmeasurable, that the eye could not reach its limits. Files of\nmonstrous columns stretched far out of sight on every side, between\nwhich twinkled livid stars of yellowish flame; points of light which\nrevealed further depths incalculable in the darkness beyond.\n\nThe Princess Hermonthis still held my hand, and graciously saluted the\nmummies of her acquaintance.\n\nMy eyes became accustomed to the dim twilight, and objects became\ndiscernible.\n\nI beheld the kings of the subterranean races seated upon thrones--grand\nold men, though dry, withered, wrinkled like parchment, and blackened\nwith naphtha and bitumen--all wearing _pshents_ of gold, and\nbreast-plates and gorgets glittering with precious stones, their eyes\nimmovably fixed like the eyes of spinxes, and their long beards whitened\nby the snow of centuries. Behind them stood their peoples, in the stiff\nand constrained posture enjoined by Egyptian art, all eternally\npreserving the attitude prescribed by the hieratic code. Behind these\nnations, the cats, ibixes, and crocodiles contemporary with\nthem--rendered monstrous of aspect by their swathing bands--mewed,\nflapped their wings, or extended their jaws in a saurian giggle.\n\nAll the Pharaohs were there--Cheops, Chephrenes, Psammetichus,\nSesostris, Amenotaph--all the dark rulers of the pyramids and syrinxes.\nOn yet higher thrones sat Chronos and Xixouthros, who was contemporary\nwith the deluge, and Tubal Cain, who reigned before it.\n\nThe beard of King Xixouthros had grown seven times around the granite\ntable, upon which he leaned, lost in deep reverie, and buried in dreams.\n\nFarther back, through a dusty cloud, I beheld dimly the seventy-two\npreadamite kings, with their seventy-two peoples, forever passed away.\n\nAfter permitting me to gaze upon this bewildering spectacle a few\nmoments, the Princess Hermonthis presented me to her father Pharaoh, who\nfavored me with a most gracious nod.\n\n\"I have found my foot again! I have found my foot!\" cried the princess,\nclapping her little hands together with every sign of frantic joy. \"It\nwas this gentleman who restored it to me.\"\n\nThe races of Kemi, the races of Nahasi--all the black, bronzed, and\ncopper-colored nations repeated in chorus:\n\n\"The Princess Hermonthis has found her foot again!\"\n\nEven Xixouthros himself was visibly affected.\n\nHe raised his heavy eyelids, stroked his mustache with his fingers, and\nturned upon me a glance weighty with centuries.\n\n\"By Oms, the dog of Hell, and Tme\u00ef, daughter of the Sun and of Truth,\nthis is a brave and worthy lad!\" exclaimed Pharaoh, pointing to me with\nhis sceptre, which was terminated with a lotus-flower.\n\n\"What recompense do you desire?\"\n\nFilled with that daring inspired by dreams in which nothing seems\nimpossible, I asked him for the hand of the Princess Hermonthis. The\nhand seemed to me a very proper antithetic recompense for the foot.\n\nPharaoh opened wide his great eyes of glass in astonishment at my witty\nrequest.\n\n\"What country do you come from, and what is your age?\"\n\n\"I am a Frenchman, and I am twenty-seven years old, venerable Pharaoh.\"\n\n\"Twenty-seven years old, and he wishes to espouse the Princess\nHermonthis who is thirty centuries old!\" cried out at once all the\nThrones and all the Circles of Nations.\n\nOnly Hermonthis herself did not seem to think my request unreasonable.\n\n\"If you were even only two thousand years old,\" replied the ancient\nking, \"I would willingly give you the princess, but the disproportion is\ntoo great; and, besides, we must give our daughters husbands who will\nlast well. You do not know how to preserve yourselves any longer. Even\nthose who died only fifteen centuries ago are already no more than a\nhandful of dust. Behold, my flesh is solid as basalt, my bones are bars\nof steel!\n\n\"I will be present on the last day of the world with the same body and\nthe same features which I had during my lifetime. My daughter\nHermonthis will last longer than a statue of bronze.\n\n\"Then the last particles of your dust will have been scattered abroad by\nthe winds, and even Isis herself, who was able to find the atoms of\nOsiris, would scarce be able to recompose your being.\n\n\"See how vigorous I yet remain, and how mighty is my grasp,\" he added,\nshaking my hand in the English fashion with a strength that buried my\nrings in the flesh of my fingers.\n\nHe squeezed me so hard that I awoke, and found my friend Alfred shaking\nme by the arm to make me get up.\n\n\"Oh, you everlasting sleeper! Must I have you carried out into the\nmiddle of the street, and fireworks exploded in your ears? It is\nafternoon. Don't you recollect your promise to take me with you to see\nM. Aguado's Spanish pictures?\"\n\n\"God! I forgot all, all about it,\" I answered, dressing myself\nhurriedly. \"We will go there at once. I have the permit lying there on\nmy desk.\"\n\nI started to find it, but fancy my astonishment when I beheld, instead\nof the mummy's foot I had purchased the evening before, the little green\npaste idol left in its place by the Princess Hermonthis!\n\n\n\n\nOMPHALE: A ROCOCO STORY\n\n\n\nMy uncle, the Chevalier de ----, resided in a small mansion which looked\nout upon the dismal Rue de Tournelles on one side, and the equally\ndismal Boulevard St. Antoine upon the other. Between the Boulevard and\nthe house itself a few ancient elm-trees, eaten alive by mosses and\ninsects, piteously extended their skeleton arms from the depth of a\nspecies of sink surrounded by high black walls. Some emaciated flowers\nhung their heads languidly, like young girls in consumption, waiting for\na ray of sunshine to dry their half-rotten leaves. Weeds had invaded the\nwalks, which were almost undistinguishable, owing to the length of time\nthat had elapsed since they were last raked. One or two goldfish\nfloated rather than swam in a basin covered with duck-weed and\nhalf-choked by water plants.\n\nMy uncle called that his garden!\n\nBesides all the fine things above described in my uncle's garden, there\nwas also a rather unpleasant pavilion, which he had entitled the\n_D\u00e9lices_, doubtless by antiphrasis. It was in a state of extreme\ndilapidation. The walls were bulging outwardly. Great masses of detached\nplaster still lay among the nettles and wild oats where they had fallen.\nThe lower portions of the wall surfaces were green with putrid mould.\nThe woodwork of the window-shutters and doors had been badly sprung, and\nthey closed only partially or not at all. A species of decoration,\nstrongly suggestive of an immense kitchen-pot with various effluvia\nradiating from it, ornamented the main entrance, for in the time of\nLouis XV., when it was the custom to build _D\u00e9lices_, there were always\ntwo entrances to such pleasure houses for precaution's sake. The\ncornice, overburdened with ovulos, foliated arabesques, and volutes, had\nbeen badly dismantled by the infiltration of rain-water. In short, the\n_D\u00e9lices_ of my uncle, the Chevalier de ----, presented a rather\nlamentable aspect.\n\nThis poor ruin, dating only from yesterday, although wearing the\ndilapidated look of a thousand years' decay--a ruin of plaster, not of\nstone, all cracked and warped, covered with a leprosy of lichen growth,\nmoss-eaten and mouldy--seemed to resemble one of those precociously old\nmen worn out by filthy debauches. It inspired no feeling of respect, for\nthere is nothing in the world so ugly and so wretched as either an old\ngauze robe or an old plaster wall, two things which ought not to endure,\nyet which do.\n\nIt was in this pavilion that my uncle had lodged me.\n\nThe interior was not less rococo than the exterior, although remaining\nin a somewhat better state of preservation. The bed was hung with yellow\nlampas, spotted over with large white flowers. An ornamental shell-work\nclock ticked away upon a pedestal inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl.\nA wreath of ornamental roses coquettishly twined around a Venetian\nglass. Above the door the Four Seasons were painted in cameo. A fair\nlady with thickly powdered hair, a sky-blue corset, and an array of\nribbons of the same hue, who had a bow in her right hand, a partridge in\nher left, a crescent upon her forehead, and a leverette at her feet,\nstrutted and smiled with ineffable graciousness from within a large oval\nframe. This was one of my uncle's mistresses of old, whom he had had\npainted as Diana. It will scarcely be necessary to observe that the\nfurniture itself was not of the most modern style. There was, in fact,\nnothing to prevent one from fancying himself living at the time of the\nRegency, and the mythological tapestry with which the Avails were hung\nrendered the illusion complete.\n\nThe tapestry represented Hercules spinning at the feet of Omphale. The\ndesign was tormented after the fashion of Vanloo, and in the most\nPompadour style possible to imagine. Hercules had a spindle decorated\nwith rose-colored favors. He elevated his little finger with a peculiar\nand special grace, like a marquis in the act of taking a pinch of\nsnuff, while turning a white flake of flax between his thumb and index\nfinger. His muscular neck was burdened with bows of ribbons, rosettes,\nstrings of pearls, and a thousand other feminine gew-gaws, and a large\n_gorge-de-pigeon_ colored petticoat, with two very large panniers, lent\nquite a gallant air to the monster-conquering hero.\n\nOmphale's white shoulders were half covered by the skin of the Nemean\nlion. Her slender hand leaned upon her lover's knotty club. Her lovely\nblonde hair, powdered to ash-color, fell loosely over her neck--a neck\nas supple and undulating in its outlines as the neck of a dove. Her\nlittle feet, true realizations of the typical Andalusian or Chinese\nfoot, and which would have been lost in Cinderella's glass slippers,\nwere shod with half-antique buskins of a tender lilac color, sprinkled\nwith pearls. In truth, she was a charming creature. Her head was thrown\nback with an adorable little mock swagger, her dimpled mouth wore a\ndelicious little pout, her nostrils were slightly expanded, her cheeks\nhad a delicate glow--an _assassin_[1]\n\n\n[1] Beauty-spot.\n\ncunningly placed there relieved their beauty in a wonderful way; she\nonly needed a little mustache to make her a first-class mousquetaire.\n\nThere were many other personages also represented in the tapestry--the\nkindly female attendant, the indispensable little Cupid--but they did\nnot leave a sufficiently distinct outline in my memory to enable me to\ndescribe them.\n\nIn those days I was quite young--not that I wish to be understood as\nsaying that I am now very old; but I was fresh from college, and was to\nremain in my uncle's care until I could choose a profession. If the good\nman had been able to foresee that I should embrace that of a fantastic\nstory-writer, he would certainly have turned me out of doors forthwith\nand irrevocably disinherited me, for he always entertained the most\naristocratic contempt for literature in general and authors in\nparticular. Like the fine gentleman that he was, it would have pleased\nhim to have had all those petty scribblers who busy themselves in\ndisfiguring paper, and speaking irreverentially about people of\nquality, hung or beaten to death by his attendants. Lord have mercy on\nmy poor uncle! He really esteemed nothing in the world except the\nepistle to Zetulba.\n\nWell, then, I had only just left college. I was full of dreams and\nillusions. I was as naive as a _rosi\u00e8re_ of Salency, perhaps more so.\nDelighted at having no more pensums to make, everything seemed to me for\nthe best in the best of all possible worlds. I believed in an infinity\nof things. I believed in M. de Florian's shepherdess with her combed and\npowdered sheep. I never for a moment doubted the reality of Madame\nDeshouli\u00e8re's flock. I believed that there were actually nine muses, as\nstated in Father Jouvency's _Appendix de Diis et Hero\u00efbus._ My\nrecollections of Berquin and of Gessner had created a little world for\nme in which everything was rose-colored, sky-blue, and apple-green. Oh,\nholy innocence!--_sancta simplicitas_! as Mephistopheles says.\n\nWhen I found myself alone in this fine room--my own room, all to\nmyself!--I felt superlatively overjoyed. I made a careful inventory of\neverything, even the smallest article of furniture. I rummaged every\ncorner, and explored the chamber in the fullest sense of the word. I was\nin the fourth heaven, as happy as a king, or rather as two kings. After\nsupper (for we used to sup at my uncle's--a charming custom, now\nobsolete, together with many other equally charming customs which I\nmourn for with all the heart I have left), I took my candle and retired\nforthwith, so impatient did I feel to enjoy my new dwelling-place.\n\nWhile I was undressing I fancied that Omphale's eyes had moved. I looked\nmore attentively in that direction, not without a slight sensation of\nfear, for the room was very large, and the feeble luminous penumbra\nwhich floated about the candle only served to render the darkness still\nmore visible. I thought I saw her turning her head toward me. I became\nfrightened in earnest, and blew out the light. I turned my face to the\nwall, pulled the bed-clothes over my head, drew my night-cap down to my\nchin, and finally went to sleep.\n\nI did not dare to look at the accursed tapestry again for several days.\n\nIt may be well here, for the sake of imparting something of\nverisimilitude to the very unlikely story I am about to relate, to\ninform my fair readers that in those days I was really a very pretty\nboy. I had the handsomest eyes in the world, at least they used to tell\nme so; a much fairer complexion than I have now, a true carnation tint;\ncurly brown hair, which I still have, and seventeen years, which I have\nno longer. I needed only a pretty stepmother to be a very tolerable\ncherub. Unfortunately mine was fifty-seven years of age, and had only\nthree teeth, which was too much of one thing and too little of the\nother.\n\nOne evening, however, I finally plucked up courage enough to take a peep\nat the fair mistress of Hercules. She was looking at me with the saddest\nand most languishing expression possible. This time I pulled my night-cap\ndown to my very shoulders, and buried my head in the coverlets.\n\nI had a strange dream that night, if indeed it was a dream.\n\nI heard the rings of my bed-curtains sliding with a sharp squeak upon\ntheir curtain-rods, as if the curtains had been suddenly pulled back. I\nawoke, at least in my dream it seemed to me that I awoke. I saw no one.\n\nThe moon shone full upon the window-panes, and projected her wan bluish\nlight into the room. Vast shadows, fantastic forms, were defined upon\nthe floor and the walls. The clock chimed a quarter, and the vibration\nof the sound took a long time to die away. It seemed like a sigh. The\nplainly audible strokes of the pendulum seemed like the pulsations of a\nyoung heart, throbbing with passion.\n\nI felt anything but comfortable, and a very bewilderment of fear took\npossession of me.\n\nA furious gust of wind banged the shutters and made the window-sashes\ntremble. The woodwork cracked, the tapestry undulated. I ventured to\nglance in the direction of Omphale, with a vague suspicion that she was\ninstrumental in all this unpleasantness, for some secret purpose of her\nown. I was not mistaken.\n\nThe tapestry became violently agitated. Omphale detached herself from\nthe wall and leaped lightly to the carpet. She came straight toward my\nbed, after having first turned herself carefully in my direction. I\nfancy it will hardly be necessary to describe my stupefaction. The most\nintrepid old soldier would not have felt very comfortable under similar\ncircumstances, and I was neither old nor a soldier. I awaited the end of\nthe adventure in terrified silence.\n\nA flute-toned, pearly little voice sounded softly in my ears, with that\npretty lisp affected during the Regency by marchionesses and people of\nhigh degree:\n\n\"Do I really frighten you, my child? It is true that you are only a\nchild, but it is not nice to be afraid of ladies, especially when they\nare young ladies and only wish you well. It is uncivil and unworthy of a\nFrench gentleman. You must be cured of such silly fears. Come, little\nsavage, leave off these foolish airs, and cease hiding your head under\nthe bed-clothes. Your education is by no means complete yet, my pretty\npage, and you have not learned so very much. In my time cherubs were\nmore courageous.\"\n\n\"But, lady, it is because--\"\n\n\"Because it seems strange to you to find me here instead of there,\" she\nsaid, biting her ruddy lip with her white teeth, and pointing toward the\nwall with her long taper finger. \"Well, in fact, the thing does not look\nvery natural, but were I to explain it all to you, you would be none the\nwiser. Let it be sufficient for you to know that you are not in any\ndanger.\"\n\n\"I am afraid you may be the--the--\"\n\n\"The devil--out with the word!--is it not? That is what you wanted to\nsay. Well, at least you will grant that I am not black enough for a\ndevil, and that if hell were peopled with devils shaped as I am, one\nmight have quite as pleasant a time there as in Paradise.\"\n\nAnd to prove that she was not flattering herself, Omphale threw back her\nlion's skin and allowed me to behold her exquisitely moulded shoulders\nand bosom, dazzling in their white beauty.\n\n\"Well, what do you think of me?\" she exclaimed, with a pretty little air\nof satisfied coquetry.\n\n\"I think that even were you the devil himself I should not feel afraid\nof you any more, Madame Omphale.\"\n\n\"Ah, now you talk sensibly, but do not call me madame, or Omphale. I do\nnot wish you to look upon me as a madame, and I am no more Omphale than\nI am the devil.\"\n\n\"Then who are you?\"\n\n\"I am the Marchioness de T----. A short time after I was married the\nmarquis had this tapestry made for my apartments, and had me represented\non it in the character of Omphale. He himself figures there as Hercules.\nThat was a queer notion he took, for God knows there never was anybody\nin the world who bore less resemblance to Hercules than the poor\nmarquis! It has been a long time since this chamber was occupied. I\nnaturally love company, and I almost died of _ennui_ in consequence. It\ngave me the headache. To be only with one's husband is the same thing as\nbeing alone. When you came I was overjoyed. This dead room became\nreanimated. I had found some one to feel interested in. I watched you\ncome in and go out, I heard you murmuring in your sleep, I watched you\nreading, and my eyes followed the pages. I found you were nicely\nbehaved, and had a fresh, innocent way about you that pleased me. In\nshort, I fell in love with you. I tried to make you understand. I\nsighed. You thought it was only the sighing of the wind. I made signs to\nyou. I looked at you with languishing eyes, and only succeeded in\nfrightening you terribly. So at last in despair I resolved upon this\nrather improper course which I have taken, to tell you frankly what you\ncould not take a hint about. Now that you know I love you, I hope\nthat--\"\n\nThe conversation was interrupted at this juncture by the grating of a\nkey in the lock of the chamber door.\n\nOmphale started and blushed to the very whites of her eyes.\n\n\"Adieu,\" she whispered, \"till to-morrow.\" And she returned to her place\non the wall, walking backward, for fear that I should see her reverse\nside, doubtless.\n\nIt was Baptiste, who came to brush my clothes.\n\n\"You ought not to sleep with your bed-curtains open, sir,\" he remarked.\n\"You might catch a bad cold. This room is so chilly.\"\n\nThe curtains were actually open, and as I had been under the impression\nthat I was only dreaming, I felt very much astonished, for I was certain\nthat they had been closed when I went to bed.\n\nAs soon as Baptiste left the room, I ran to the tapestry. I felt it all\nover. It was indeed a real woollen tapestry, rough to the touch like any\nother tapestry. Omphale resembled the charming phantom of the night only\nas a dead body resembles a living one. I lifted the hangings. The wall\nwas solid throughout. There were no masked panels or secret doors. I\nonly noticed that a few threads were broken in the groundwork of the\ntapestry where the feet of Omphale rested. This afforded me food for\nreflection.\n\nAll that day I remained buried in the deepest brown study imaginable. I\nlonged for evening with a mingled feeling of anxiety and impatience. I\nretired early, resolved on learning how this mystery was going to end.\nI got into bed. The marchioness did not keep me waiting long. She leaped\ndown from the tapestry in front of the pier-glass, and dropped right by\nmy bed. She seated herself by my pillow, and the conversation commenced.\n\nI asked her questions as I had done the evening before, and demanded\nexplanations. She eluded the former, and replied in an evasive manner to\nthe latter, yet always after so witty a fashion that within a quarter of\nan hour I felt no scruples whatever in regard to my liaison with her.\n\nWhile conversing she passed her fingers through my hair, tapped me\ngently on the cheeks, and softly kissed my forehead.\n\nShe chatted and chatted in a pretty mocking way, in a style at once\nelegantly polished and yet familiar and altogether like a great lady,\nsuch as I have never since heard from the lips of any human being.\n\nShe was then seated upon the easy-chair beside the bed. In a little\nwhile she slipped one of her arms around my neck, and I felt her heart\nbeating passionately against me. It was indeed a charming and handsome\nreal woman, a veritable marchioness whom I found beside me, poor student\nof seventeen! There was more than enough to make one lose his head, so I\nlost mine. I did not know very well what was going to happen, but I felt\na vague presentiment that it would displease the marquis.\n\n\"And Monsieur le Marquis, on the wall up there--what will he say?\"\n\nThe lion's skin had fallen to the floor, and the soft lilac-colored\nbuskins, filigreed with silver, were lying beside my shoes.\n\n\"He will not say anything,\" replied the marchioness, laughing heartily.\n\"Do you suppose he ever sees anything? Besides, even should he see, he\nis the most philosophical and inoffensive husband in the world. He is\nused to such things. Do you love me, little one?\"\n\n\"Indeed I do, ever so much!--ever so much!\"\n\nMorning dawned. My mistress stole away.\n\nThe day seemed to me frightfully long. At last evening came. The same\nthings happened as on the evening before, and the second night left no\nregrets for the first. The marchioness became more and more adorable,\nand this state of affairs continued for a long time. As I never slept at\nnight, I wore a somnolent expression in the day-time which did not augur\nwell for me with my uncle. He suspected something. He probably listened\nat the door and heard everything, for one fine morning he entered my\nroom so brusquely that Antoinette had scarcely time to get back to her\nplace on the tapestry.\n\nHe was followed by a tapestry-hanger with pincers and a ladder.\n\nHe looked at me with a shrewd and severe expression which convinced me\nthat he knew all.\n\n\"This Marchioness de T---- is certainly crazy. What the devil could have\nput it into her head to fall in love with a brat like that?\" muttered my\nuncle between his teeth. \"She promised to behave herself.\n\n\"Jean, take that tapestry down, roll it up, and put it in the garret.\"\n\nEvery word my uncle spoke went through my heart like a poniard-thrust.\n\nJean rolled up my sweetheart Omphale, otherwise the Marchioness\nAntoinette de T----, together with Hercules, or the Marquis de T----,\nand carried the whole thing off to the garret. I could not restrain my\ntears.\n\nNext day my uncle sent me back in the B---- diligence to my respectable\nparents, to whom, you may feel assured, I never breathed a word of my\nadventure.\n\nMy uncle died; his house and furniture were sold; probably the tapestry\nwas sold with the rest.\n\nBut a long time afterward, while foraging the shop of a bric-\u00e0-brac\nmerchant in search of oddities, I stumbled over a great dusty roll of\nsomething covered with cobwebs.\n\n\"What is that?\" I said to the Auvergnat.\n\n\"That is a rococo tapestry representing the amours of Madame Omphale and\nMonsieur Hercule. It is genuine Beauvais, worked in silk, and in an\nexcellent state of preservation. Buy this from me for your study. I will\nnot charge you dear for it, since it is you.\"\n\nAt the name of Omphale all my blood rushed to my heart.\n\n\"Unroll that tapestry,\" I said to the merchant in a hurried, gasping\nvoice, like one in a fever.\n\nIt was indeed she! I fancied that her mouth smiled graciously at me, and\nthat her eye lighted up on meeting mine.\n\n\"How much do you ask?\"\n\n\"Well, I could not possibly let you have it for any less than five\nhundred francs.\"\n\n\"I have not that much with me now. I will get it and be back in an\nhour.\"\n\nI returned with the money, but the tapestry was no longer there. An\nEnglishman had bargained for it during my absence, offered six hundred\nfrancs for it, and taken it away with him.\n\nAfter all, perhaps it was best that it should have been thus, and that I\nshould preserve this delicious souvenir intact. They say one should\nnever return to a first love, or look at the rose which one admired the\nevening before.\n\nAnd then I am no longer so young or so pretty that tapestries should\ncome down from their walls to honor me.\n\n\n\n\nKING CANDAULES\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nFive hundred years before the Trojan war, and seventeen hundred and\nfifteen years before our own era, there was a grand festival at Sardes.\nKing Candaules was going to marry. The people were affected with that\nsort of pleasurable interest and aimless emotion wherewith any royal\nevent inspires the masses, even though it in no wise concerns them, and\ntranspires in superior spheres of life which they can never hope to\nreach.\n\nAs soon as Ph\u0153bus-Apollo, standing in his quadriga, had gilded to\nsaffron the summits of fertile Mount Tmolus with his rays, the good\npeople of Sardes were all astir, going and coming, mounting or\ndescending the marble stairways leading from the city to the waters of\nthe Pactolus, that opulent river whose sands Midas filled with tiny\nsparks of gold when he bathed in its stream. One would have supposed\nthat each one of these good citizens was himself about to marry, so\nsolemn and important was the demeanor of all.\n\nMen were gathering in groups in the Agora, upon the steps of the temples\nand along the porticoes. At every street corner one might have\nencountered women leading by the hand little children, whose uneven walk\nill suited the maternal anxiety and impatience. Maidens were hastening\nto the fountains, all with urns gracefully balanced upon their heads, or\nsustained by their white arms as with natural handles, so as to procure\nearly the necessary water provision for the household, and thus obtain\nleisure at the hour when the nuptial procession should pass. Washerwomen\nhastily folded the still damp tunics and chlamid\u00e6, and piled them upon\nmule-wagons. Slaves turned the mill without any need of the overseer's\nwhip to tickle their naked and scar-seamed shoulders. Sardes was\nhurrying itself to finish with those necessary every-day cares which no\nfestival can wholly disregard.\n\nThe road along which the procession was to pass had been strewn with\nfine yellow sand. Brazen tripods, disposed along the way at regular\nintervals, sent up to heaven the odorous smoke of cinnamon and\nspikenard. These vapors, moreover, alone clouded the purity of the azure\nabove. The clouds of a hymeneal day ought, indeed, to be formed only by\nthe burning of perfumes. Myrtle and rose-laurel branches were strewn\nupon the ground, and from the walls of the palaces were suspended by\nlittle rings of bronze rich tapestries, whereon the needles of\nindustrious captives--intermingling wool, silver, and gold--had\nrepresented various scenes in the history of the gods and heroes: Ixion\nembracing the cloud; Diana surprised in the bath by Act\u00e6on; the\nshepherd Paris as judge in the contest of beauty held upon Mount Ida\nbetween Hera, the snowy-armed, Athena of the sea-green eyes, and\nAphrodite, girded with her magic cestus; the old men of Troy rising to\nhonor Helena as she passed through the Skaian gate, a subject taken from\none of the poems of the blind man of Meles. Others exhibited in\npreference scenes taken from the life of Heracles the Theban, through\nflattery to Candaules, himself a Heracleid, being descended from the\nhero through Alc\u00e6us. Others contented themselves by decorating the\nentrances of their dwellings with garlands and wreaths in token of\nrejoicing.\n\nAmong the multitudes marshalled along the way from the royal house even\nas far as the gates of the city, through which the young queen would\npass on her arrival, conversation naturally turned upon the beauty of\nthe bride, whereof the renown had spread throughout all Asia; and upon\nthe character of the bridegroom, who, although not altogether an\neccentric, seemed nevertheless one not readily appreciated from the\ncommon standpoint of observation.\n\nNyssia, daughter of the Satrap Megabazus, was gifted with marvellous\npurity of feature and perfection of form; at least such was the rumor\nspread abroad by the female slaves who attended her, and a few female\nfriends who had accompanied her to the bath; for no man could boast of\nknowing aught of Nyssia save the color of her veil and the elegant folds\nthat she involuntarily impressed upon the soft materials which robed her\nstatuesque body.\n\nThe barbarians did not share the ideas of the Greeks in regard to\nmodesty. While the youths of Achaia made no scruple of allowing their\noil-anointed torsos to shine under the sun in the stadium, and while the\nSpartan virgins danced ungarmented before the altar of Diana, those of\nPersepolis, Ebactana, and Bactria, attaching more importance to chastity\nof the body than to chastity of mind, considered those liberties allowed\nto the pleasure of the eyes by Greek manner as impure and highly\nreprehensible, and held no woman virtuous who permitted men to obtain a\nglimpse of more than the tip of her foot in walking, as it slightly\nderanged the discreet folds of a long tunic.\n\nDespite all this mystery, or rather, perhaps, by very reason of this\nmystery, the fame of Nyssia had not been slow to spread throughout all\nLydia, and become popular there to such a degree that it had reached\neven Candaules, although kings are ordinarily the most illy informed\npeople in their kingdoms, and live like the gods in a kind of cloud\nwhich conceals from them the knowledge of terrestrial things.\n\nThe Eupatrid\u00e6 of Sardes, who hoped that the young king might,\nperchance, choose a wife from their family, the hetair\u00e6 of Athens, of\nSamos, of Miletus and of Cyprus, the beautiful slaves from the banks of\nthe Indus, the blonde girls brought at a vast expense from the depths of\nthe Cimmerian fogs, were heedful never to utter in the presence of\nCandaules, whether within hearing or beyond hearing, a single word which\nbore any relation to Nyssia. The bravest, in a question of beauty,\nrecoil before the prospect of a contest in which they can anticipate\nbeing outrivalled.\n\nAnd nevertheless no person in Sardes, or even in Lydia, had beheld this\nredoubtable adversary, no person save one solitary being, who from the\ntime of that encounter had kept his lips as firmly closed upon the\nsubject as though Harpocrates, the god of silence, had sealed them with\nhis finger, and that was Gyges, chief of the guards of Candaules. One\nday Gyges, his mind filled with various projects and vague ambitions,\nhad been wandering among the Bactrian hills, whither his master had sent\nhim upon an important and secret mission. He was dreaming of the\nintoxication of omnipotence, of treading upon purple with sandals of\ngold, of placing the diadem upon the brows of the fairest of women.\nThese thoughts made his blood boil in his veins, and, as though to\npursue the flight of his dreams, he smote his sinewy heel upon the\nfoam-whitened flanks of his Numidian horse.\n\nThe weather, at first calm, had changed and waxed tempestuous like the\nwarrior's soul; and Boreas, his locks bristling with Thracian frosts,\nhis cheeks puffed out, his arms folded upon his breast, smote the\nrain-freighted clouds with the mighty beatings of his wings.\n\nA bevy of young girls who had been gathering flowers in the meadow,\nfearing the coming storm, were returning to the city in all haste, each\ncarrying her perfumed harvest in the lap of her tunic. Seeing a stranger\non horseback approaching in the distance, they had hidden their faces in\ntheir mantles, after the custom of the barbarians; but at the very\nmoment that Gyges was passing by the one whose proud carriage and richer\nhabiliments seemed to designate her the mistress of the little band, an\nunusually violent gust of wind carried away the veil of the fair\nunknown, and, whirling it through the air like a feather, chased it to\nsuch a distance that it could not be recovered. It was Nyssia, daughter\nof Megabazus, who found herself thus with face unveiled in the presence\nof Gyges, an humble captain of King Candaules' guard. Was it only the\nbreath of Boreas which had brought about this accident, or had Eros, who\ndelights to vex the hearts of men, amused himself by severing the string\nwhich had fastened the protecting tissue? However that may have been,\nGyges was stricken motionless at the sight of that Medusa of beauty, and\nnot till long after the folds of Nyssia's robe had disappeared beyond\nthe gates of the city could he think of proceeding on his way. Although\nthere was nothing to justify such a conjecture, he cherished the belief\nthat he had seen the satrap's daughter; and that meeting, which affected\nhim almost like an apparition, accorded so fully with the thoughts which\nwere occupying him at the moment of its occurrence, that he could not\nhelp perceiving therein something fateful and ordained of the gods. In\ntruth it was upon that brow that he would have wished to place the\ndiadem. What other could be more worthy of it? But what probability was\nthere that Gyges would ever have a throne to share? He had not sought to\nfollow up this adventure, and assure himself whether it was indeed the\ndaughter of Megabazus whose mysterious face had been revealed to him by\nChance, the great filcher. Nyssia had fled so swiftly that it would have\nbeen impossible for him then to overtake her; and, moreover, he had been\ndazzled, fascinated, thunder-stricken, as it were, rather than charmed\nby that superhuman apparition, by that monster of beauty! Nevertheless\nthat image, although seen only in the glimpse of a moment, had engraved\nitself upon his heart in lines deep as those which the sculptors trace\non ivory with tools reddened in the fire. He had endeavored, although\nvainly, to efface it, for the love which he felt for Nyssia inspired him\nwith a secret terror. Perfection in such a degree is ever awe-inspiring,\nand women so like unto goddesses could only work evil to feeble mortals;\nthey are formed for divine adulteries, and even the most courageous men\nnever risk themselves in such amours without trembling. Therefore no\nhope had blossomed in the soul of Gyges, overwhelmed and discouraged in\nadvance by the sentiment of the impossible. Ere opening his lips to\nNyssia he would have wished to despoil the heaven of its robe of stars,\nto take from Ph\u0153bus his crown of rays, forgetting that women only give\nthemselves to those unworthy of them, and that to win their love one\nmust act as though he desired to earn their hate.\n\nFrom that day the roses of joy no longer bloomed upon his cheeks. By day\nhe was sad and mournful, and seemed to wander abroad in solitary\ndreaming, like a mortal who has beheld a divinity. At night he was\nhaunted by dreams in which he beheld Nyssia seated by his side upon\ncushions of purple between the golden griffins of the royal throne.\n\nTherefore Gyges, the only one who could speak of his own knowledge\nconcerning Nyssia, having never spoken of her, the Sardians were left to\ntheir own conjectures in her regard; and their conjectures, it must be\nconfessed, were fantastic and altogether fabulous. The beauty of Nyssia,\nthanks to the veils which shrouded her, became a sort of myth, a canvas,\na poem to which each one added ornamentation as the fancy took him.\n\n\"If report be not false,\" lisped a young debauchee from Athens, who\nstood with one hand upon the shoulder of an Asiatic boy, \"neither\nPlangon, nor Archianassa, nor Thais can be compared with this marvellous\nbarbarian; yet I can scarce believe that she equals Theano of Colophon,\nfrom whom I once bought a single night at the price of as much gold as\nshe could bear away, after having plunged both her white arms up to the\nshoulder in my cedar-wood coffer.\"\n\n\"Beside her,\" added a Eupatrid, who pretended to be better informed than\nany other person upon all manner of subjects, \"beside her the daughter\nof C\u0153lus and the Sea would seem but a mere Ethiopian servant.\"\n\n\"Your words are blasphemy, and although Aphrodite be a kind and\nindulgent goddess, beware of drawing down her anger upon you.\"\n\n\"By Hercules!--and that ought to be an oath of some weight in a city\nruled by one of his descendants--I cannot retract a word of it.\"\n\n\"You have seen her, then?\"\n\n\"No; but I have a slave in my service who once belonged to Nyssia, and\nwho has told me a hundred stories about her.\"\n\n\"Is it true,\" demanded in infantile tones an equivocal-looking woman\nwhose pale-rose tunic, painted cheeks, and locks shining with essences\nbetrayed wretched pretensions to a youth long passed away--\"is it true\nthat Nyssia has two pupils in each eye? It seems to me that must be very\nugly, and I cannot understand how Candaules could fall in love with\nsuch a monstrosity, while there is no lack, at Sardes and in Lydia, of\nwomen whose eyes are irreproachable.\"\n\nAnd uttering these words with all sorts of affected airs and simperings,\nLamia took a little significant peep in a small mirror of cast metal\nwhich she drew from her bosom, and which enabled her to lead back to\nduty certain wandering curls disarranged by the impertinence of the\nwind.\n\n\"As to the double pupil, that seems to me nothing more than an old\nnurse's tale,\" observed the well-informed patrician; \"but it is a fact\nthat Nyssia's eyes are so piercing that she can see through walls.\nLynxes are myopic compared with her.\"\n\n\"How can a sensible man coolly argue about such an absurdity?\"\ninterrupted a citizen, whose bald skull, and the flood of snowy beard\ninto which he plunged his fingers while speaking, lent him an air of\npreponderance and philosophical sagacity. \"The truth is that the\ndaughter of Megabazus cannot naturally see through a wall any better\nthan you or I, but the Egyptian priest Thoutmosis, who knows so\nmany-wondrous secrets, has given her the mysterious stone which is found\nin the heads of dragons, and whose property, as every one knows, renders\nall shadows and the most opaque bodies transparent to the eyes of those\nwho possess it. Nyssia always carries this stone in her girdle, or else\nset into her bracelet, and in that may be found the secret of her\nclairvoyance.\"\n\nThe citizen's explanation seemed the most natural one to those of the\ngroup whose conversation we are endeavoring to reproduce, and the\nopinions of Lamia and the patrician were abandoned as improbable.\n\n\"At all events,\" returned the lover of Theano, \"we are going to have an\nopportunity of judging for ourselves, for it seems to me that I hear the\nclarions sounding in the distance, and though Nyssia is still invisible,\nI can see the herald yonder approaching with palm-branches in his hands,\nto announce the arrival of the nuptial _cort\u00e8ge_, and make the crowd\nfall back.\"\n\nAt this news, which spread rapidly through the crowd, the strong men\nelbowed their way toward the front ranks; the agile boys, embracing the\nshafts of the columns, sought to climb up to the capitals and there seat\nthemselves; others, not without having skinned their knees against the\nbark, succeeded in perching themselves comfortably enough in the Y of\nsome tree-branch. The women lifted their little children upon their\nshoulders, warning them to hold tightly to their necks. Those who had\nthe good fortune to dwell on the street along which Candaules and Nyssia\nwere about to pass, leaned over from the summit of their roofs, or,\nrising on their elbows, abandoned for a time the cushions upon which\nthey had been reclining.\n\nA murmur of satisfaction and gratified expectation ran through the\ncrowd, which had already been waiting many long hours, for the arrows of\nthe midday sun were commencing to sting.\n\nThe heavy-armed warriors, with cuirasses of bull's-hide covered with\noverlapping plates of metal, helmets adorned with plumes of horse-hair\ndyed red, _knemides_ or greaves faced with tin, baldrics studded with\nnails, emblazoned bucklers, and swords of brass, rode behind a line of\ntrumpeters who blew with might and main upon their long tubes, which\ngleamed under the sunlight. The horses of these warriors were all white\nas the feet of Thetis, and might have served, by reason of their noble\npaces and purity of breeds, as models for those which Phidias at a later\nday sculptured upon the metopes of the Parthenon.\n\nAt the head of this troop rode Gyges, the well-named, for his name in\nthe Lydian tongue signifies beautiful. His features, of the most\nexquisite regularity, seemed chiselled in marble, owing to his intense\npallor, for he had just discovered in Nyssia, although she was veiled\nwith the veil of a young bride, the same woman whose face had been\nbetrayed to his gaze by the treachery of Boreas under the walls of\nBactria.\n\n\"Handsome Gyges looks very sad,\" said the young maidens. \"What proud\nbeauty could have secured his love, or what forsaken one has caused some\nThessalian witch to cast a spell on him? Has that cabalistic ring (which\nhe is said to have found hidden within the flanks of a brazen horse in\nthe midst of some forest) lost its virtue, and suddenly ceasing to\nrender its owner invisible, have betrayed him to the astonished eyes of\nsome innocent husband, who had deemed himself alone in his conjugal\nchamber?\"\n\n\"Perhaps he has been wasting his talents and his drachmas at the game of\nPalamedes, or else it may be that he is disappointed at not having won\nthe prize at the Olympian games. He had great faith in his horse\nHyperion.\"\n\nNo one of these conjectures was true. A fact is never guessed.\n\nAfter the battalion commanded by Gyges, there came young boys crowned\nwith myrtle-wreaths, and singing epithalamic hymns after the Lydian\nmanner, accompanying themselves upon lyres of ivory, which they played\nwith bows. All were clad in rose-colored tunics ornamented with a silver\nGreek border, and their long hair flowed down over their shoulders in\nthick curls.\n\nThey preceded the gift-bearers, strong slaves whose half-nude bodies\nexposed to view such interlacements of muscle as the stoutest athletes\nmight have envied.\n\nUpon brancards, supported by two or four men or more, according to the\nweight of the objects borne, were placed enormous brazen cratera,\nchiselled by the most famous artists: vases of gold and silver whose\nsides were adorned with bas-reliefs and whose hands were elegantly\nworked into chimeras, foliage, and nude women; magnificent ewers to be\nused in washing the feet of illustrious guests; flagons incrusted with\nprecious stones and containing the rarest perfumes; myrrh from Arabia,\ncinnamon from the Indies, spikenard from Persia, essence of roses from\nSmyrna; klamklins or perfuming pans, with perforated covers; cedar-wood\nor ivory coffers of marvellous workmanship, which opened with a secret\nspring that none save the inventor could find, and which contained\nbracelets wrought from the gold of Ophir, necklaces of the most lustrous\npearls, mantle-brooches constellated with rubies and carbuncles; toilet\nboxes containing blonde sponges, curling-irons, sea-wolves' teeth to\npolish the nails, the green rouge of Egypt, which turns to a most\nbeautiful pink on touching the skin, powders to darken the eyelashes\nand eyebrows, and all the refinements that feminine coquetry could\ninvent. Other litters were freighted with purple robes of the finest\nlinen and of all possible shades from the incarnadine hue of the rose to\nthe deep crimson of the blood of the grape; _calasires_ of the linen of\nCanopus, which is thrown all white into the vat of the dyer, and comes\nforth again, owing to the various astringents in which it had been\nsteeped, diapered with the most brilliant colors; tunics brought from\nthe fabulous land of Seres, made from the spun slime of a worm which\nfeeds upon leaves, and so fine that they might be drawn through a\nfinger-ring.\n\nEthiopians, whose bodies shone like jet, and whose temples were tightly\nbound with cords, lest they should burst the veins of their foreheads in\nthe effort to uphold their burden, carried in great pomp a statue of\nHercules, the ancestor of Candaules, of colossal size, wrought of ivory\nand gold, with the club, the skin of the Nemean lion, the three apples\nfrom the garden of the Hesperides, and all the traditional attributes of\nthe hero.\n\nStatues of Venus Urania, and of Venus Genitrix, sculptured by the best\npupils of the Sicyon School in that marble of Paros whose gleaming\ntransparency seemed expressly created for the representation of the\never-youthful flesh of the immortals, were borne after the statue of\nHercules, which admirably relieved the harmony and elegance of their\nproportions by contrast with its massive outlines and rugged forms.\n\nA painting by Bularchus, which Candaules had purchased for its weight in\ngold, executed upon the wood of the female larch-tree, and representing\nthe defeat of the Magnesians, evoked universal admiration by the beauty\nof its design, the truthfulness of the attitude of its figures, and the\nharmony of its coloring, although the artist had only employed in its\nproduction the four primitive colors: Attic ochre, white, Pontic\n_sinopis,_ and _atramentum_. The young king loved painting and sculpture\neven more, perhaps, than well became a monarch, and he had not\nunfrequently bought a picture at a price equal to the annual revenue of\na whole city.\n\nCamels and dromedaries, splendidly caparisoned, with musicians seated on\ntheir necks performing upon drums and cymbals, carried the gilded\nstakes, the cords, and the material of the tent designed for the use of\nthe queen during voyages and hunting parties.\n\nThese spectacles of magnificence would upon any other occasion have\nravished the people of Sardes with delight, but their curiosity had been\nenlisted in another direction, and it was not without a certain feeling\nof impatience that they watched this portion of the procession file by.\nThe young maidens and the handsome boys, bearing flaming torches, and\nstrewing handfuls of crocus flowers along the way, hardly attracted any\nattention. The idea of beholding Nyssia had preoccupied all minds.\n\nAt last Candaules appeared, riding in a chariot drawn by four horses, as\nbeautiful and spirited as those of the sun, all rolling their golden\nbits in foam, shaking their purple-decked manes, and restrained with\ngreat difficulty by the driver, who stood erect at the side of\nCandaules, and was leaning back to gain more power on the reins.\n\nCandaules was a young man full of vigor, and well worthy of his\nHerculean origin. His head was joined to his shoulders by a neck\nmassive as a bull's, and almost without a curve; his hair, black and\nlustrous, twisted itself into rebellious little curls, here and there\nconcealing the circlet of his diadem; his ears, small and upright, were\nof a ruddy hue; his forehead was broad and full, though a little low,\nlike all antique foreheads; his eyes full of gentle melancholy, his oval\ncheeks, his chin with its gentle and regular curves, his mouth with its\nslightly parted lips--all bespoke the nature of the poet rather than\nthat of the warrior. In fact, although he was brave, skilled in all\nbodily exercises, could subdue a wild horse as well as any of the\nLapith\u00e6, or swim across the current of rivers when they descended,\nswollen with melted snow, from the mountains, although he might have\nbent the bow of Odysseus or borne the shield of Achilles, he seemed\nlittle occupied with dreams of conquest; and war, usually so fascinating\nto young kings, had little attraction for him. He contented himself with\nrepelling the attacks of his ambitious neighbors, and sought not to\nextend his own dominions. He preferred building palaces, after plans\nsuggested by himself to the architects, who always found the king's\nhints of no small value, or to form collections of statues and paintings\nby artists of the elder and later schools. He had the works of\nTelephanes of Sicyon, Cleanthes, Ardices of Corinth, Hygiemon, Deinias,\nCharmides, Eumarus, and Cimon, some being simple drawings, and other\npaintings in various colors or monochromes. It was even said that\nCandaules had not disdained to wield with his own royal hands-a thing\nhardly becoming a prince--the chisel of the sculptor and the sponge of\nthe encaustic painter.\n\nBut why should we dwell upon Candaules? The reader undoubtedly feels\nlike the people of Sardes: and it is of Nyssia that he desires to hear.\n\nThe daughter of Megabazus was mounted upon an elephant, with wrinkled\nskin and immense ears which seemed like flags, who advanced with a heavy\nbut rapid gait, like a vessel in the midst of the waves. His tusks and\nhis trunk were encircled with silver rings, and around the pillars of\nhis limbs were entwined necklaces of enormous pearls. Upon his back,\nwhich was covered with a magnificent Persian carpet of striped pattern,\nstood a sort of estrade overlaid with gold finely chased, and\nconstellated with onyx stones, carnelians, chrysolites, lapis-lazuli,\nand girasols; upon this estrade sat the young queen, so covered with\nprecious stones as to dazzle the eyes of the beholders. A mitre, shaped\nlike a helmet, on which pearls formed flower designs and letters after\nthe Oriental manner, was placed upon her head; her ears, both the lobes\nand rims of which had been pierced, were adorned with ornaments in the\nform of little cups, crescents, and balls; necklaces of gold and silver\nbeads, which had been hollowed out and carved, thrice encircled her neck\nand descended with a metallic tinkling upon her bosom; emerald serpents\nwith topaz or ruby eyes coiled themselves in many folds about her arms,\nand clasped themselves by biting their own tails. These bracelets were\nconnected by chains of precious stones, and so great was their weight\nthat two attendants were required to kneel beside Nyssia and support her\nelbows. She was clad in a robe embroidered by Syrian workmen with\nshining designs of golden foliage and diamond fruits, and over this she\nwore the short tunic of Persepolis, which hardly descended to the knee,\nand of which the sleeves were slit and fastened by sapphire clasps. Her\nwaist was encircled from hip to loins by a girdle wrought of narrow\nmaterial, variegated with stripes and flowered designs, which formed\nthemselves into symmetrical patterns as they were brought together by a\ncertain arrangement of the folds which Indian girls alone know how to\nmake. Her trousers of byssus, which the Ph\u0153nicians called _syndon_,\nwere confined at the ankles by anklets adorned with gold and silver\nbells, and completed this toilet, so fantastically rich and wholly\nopposed to Greek taste. But, alas! a saffron-colored _flammeum_\npitilessly masked the face of Nyssia, who seemed embarrassed, veiled\nthough she was, at finding so many eyes fixed upon her, and frequently\nsigned to a slave behind her to lower the parasol of ostrich plumes, and\nthus conceal her yet more from the curious gaze of the crowd.\n\nCandaules had vainly begged of her to lay aside her veil, even for that\nsolemn occasion. The young barbarian had refused to pay the welcome of\nher beauty to his people. Great was the disappointment. Lamia declared\nthat Nyssia dared not uncover her face for fear of showing her double\npupil. The young libertine remained convinced that Theano of Colophon\nwas more beautiful than the queen of Sardes; and Gyges sighed when he\nbeheld Nyssia, after having made her elephant kneel down, descend upon\nthe inclined heads of Damascus slaves as upon a living ladder, to the\nthreshold of the royal dwelling, where the elegance of Greek\narchitecture was blended with the fantasies and enormities of Asiatic\ntaste.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nIn our character of poet we have the right to lift the saffron-colored\n_flammeum_ which concealed the young bride, being more fortunate in this\nwise than the Sardians, who after a whole day's waiting were obliged to\nreturn to their houses and were left, as before, to their own\nconjectures.\n\nNyssia was really far superior to her reputation, great as it was. It\nseemed as though Nature in creating her had resolved to exhaust her\nutmost powers, and thus make atonement for all former experimental\nattempts and fruitless essays. One would have said that, moved by\njealousy of the future marvels of the Greek sculptors, she also had\nresolved to model a statue herself, and to prove that she was still\nsovereign mistress in the plastic art.\n\nThe grain of snow, the micaceous brilliancy of Parian marble, the\nsparkling pulp of balsamine flowers, would render but a feeble idea of\nthe ideal substance whereof Nyssia had been formed. That flesh, so fine,\nso delicate, permitted daylight to penetrate it, and modelled itself in\ntransparent contours, in lines as sweetly harmonious as music itself.\nAccording to different surroundings, it took the color of the sunlight\nor of purple, like the aromal body of a divinity, and seemed to radiate\nlight and life. The world of perfections inclosed within the\nnobly-lengthened oval of her chaste face could have been rendered by no\nearthly art--neither by the chisel of the sculptor, nor the brush of\nthe painter, nor the style of any poet--though it were Praxiteles,\nApelles, or Mimnermus; and on her smooth brow, bathed by waves of hair\namber-bright as molten electrum and sprinkled with gold filings,\naccording to the Babylonian custom, sat as upon a jasper throne the\nunalterable serenity of perfect loveliness.\n\nAs for her eyes, though they did not justify what popular credulity said\nof them, they were at least wonderfully strange eyes; brown eyebrows,\nwith extremities ending in points elegant as those of the arrows of\nEros, and which were joined to each other by a streak of henna after the\nAsiatic fashion, and long fringes of silkily-shadowed eyelashes\ncontrasted strikingly with the twin sapphire stars rolling in the heaven\nof dark silver which formed those eyes. The irises of those eyes, whose\npupils were blacker than atrament, varied singularly in shades of\nshifting color. From sapphire they changed to turquoise, from turquoise\nto beryl, from beryl to yellow amber, and sometimes, like a limpid lake\nwhose bottom is strewn with jewels, they offered, through their\nincalculable depths, glimpses of golden and diamond sands upon which\ngreen fibrils vibrated and twisted themselves into emerald serpents. In\nthose orbs of phosphoric lightning the rays of suns extinguished, the\nsplendors of vanished worlds, the glories of Olympus eclipsed--all\nseemed to have concentrated their reflections. When contemplating them\none thought of eternity, and felt himself seized with a mighty\ngiddiness, as though he were leaning over the verge of the Infinite.\n\nThe expression of those extraordinary eyes was not less variable than\ntheir tint. At times their lids opened like the portals of celestial\ndwellings; they invited you into elysiums of light, of azure, of\nineffable felicity; they promised you the realization, tenfold, a\nhundredfold, of all your dreams of happiness, as though they had divined\nyour soul's most secret thoughts; again, impenetrable as sevenfold\nplated shields of the hardest metals, they flung back your gaze like\nblunted and broken arrows. With a simple inflexion of the brow, a mere\nflash of the pupil, more terrible than the thunder of Zeus, they\nprecipitated you from the heights of your most ambitious escalades into\ndepths of nothingness so profound that it was impossible to rise again.\nTyphon himself, who writhes under \u00c6tna, could not have lifted the\nmountains of disdain with which they overwhelmed you. One felt that\nthough he should live for a thousand Olympiads endowed with the beauty\nof the fair son of Latona, the genius of Orpheus, the unbounded might of\nAssyrian kings, the treasures of the Cabeirei, the Telchines, and the\nDactyli, gods of subterranean wealth, he could never change their\nexpression to mildness.\n\nAt other times their languishment was so liquidly persuasive, their\nbrilliancy and irradiation so penetrating, that the icy coldness of\nNestor and Priam would have melted under their gaze, like the wax of the\nwings of Icarus when he approached the flaming zones. For one such\nglance a man would have gladly steeped his hands in the blood of his\nhost, scattered the ashes of his father to the four winds, overthrown\nthe holy images of the gods, and stolen the fire of heaven itself, like\nthe sublime thief, Prometheus.\n\nNevertheless, their most ordinary expression, it must be confessed, was\nof a chastity to make one desperate--a sublime coldness--an ignorance of\nall possibilities of human passion, such as would have made the\nmoon-bright eyes of Ph\u0153be or the sea-green eyes of Athena appear by\ncomparison more liquidly tempting than those of a young girl of Babylon\nsacrificing to the goddess Mylitta within the cord-circled enclosure of\nSuccoth-Benohl. Their invincible virginity seemed to bid love defiance.\n\nThe cheeks of Nyssia, which no human gaze had ever profaned, save that\nof Gyges on the day when the veil was blown away, possessed a youthful\nbloom, a tender pallor, a delicacy of grain, and a downiness whereof the\nfaces of our women, perpetually exposed to sunlight and air, cannot\nconvey the most distant idea. Modesty created fleeting rosy clouds upon\nthem like those which a drop of crimson essence would form in a cup of\nmilk, and when uncolored by any emotion they took a silvery sheen, a\nwarm light, like an alabaster vessel illumined by a lamp within. That\nlamp was her charming soul, which exposed to view the transparency of\nher flesh.\n\nA bee would have been deceived by her mouth, whose form was so perfect,\nwhose corners were so purely dimpled, whose crimson was so rich and warm\nthat the gods would have descended from their Olympian dwellings in\norder to touch it with lips humid with immortality, but that the\njealousy of the goddesses restrained their impetuosity. Happy the wind\nwhich passed through that purple and pearl, which dilated those pretty\nnostrils, so finely cut and shaded with rosy tints like the\nmother-of-pearl of the shells thrown by the sea on the shore of Cyprus\nat the feet of Venus Anadyomene! But are there not a multitude of favors\nthus granted to things which cannot understand them? What lover would\nnot wish to be the tunic of his well-beloved or the water of her bath?\n\nSuch was Nyssia, if we dare make use of the expression after so vague a\ndescription of her face. If our foggy Northern idioms had the warm\nliberty, the burning enthusiasm of the Sir Hasirim, we might, perhaps,\nby comparisons--awakening in the mind of the reader memories of flowers\nand perfumes, of music and sunlight, evoking, by the magic of words, all\nthe graceful and charming images that the universe can contain--have\nbeen able to give some idea of Nyssia's features; but it is permitted to\nSolomon alone to compare the nose of a beautiful woman to the tower of\nLebanon which looketh toward Damascus. And yet what is there in the\nworld of more importance than the nose of a beautiful woman? Had Helen,\nthe white Tyndarid, been flat-nosed, would the Trojan War have taken\nplace? And if the profile of Semiramis had not been perfectly regular,\nwould she have bewitched the old monarch of Nineveh and encircled her\nbrow with the mitre of pearls, the symbol of supreme power?\n\nAlthough Candaules had brought to his palace the most beautiful slaves\nfrom the people of the Sor\u00e6, of Askalon, of Sogdiana, of the Sac\u00e6, of\nRhapta, the most celebrated courtesans from Ephesus, from Pergamus, from\nSmyrna, and from Cyprus, he was completely fascinated by the charms of\nNyssia. Up to that time he had not even suspected the existence of such\nperfection.\n\nPrivileged as a husband to enjoy fully the contemplation of this beauty,\nhe found himself dazzled, giddy, like one who leans over the edge of an\nabyss, or fixes his eyes upon the sun; he felt himself seized, as it\nwere, with the delirium of possession, like a priest drunk with the god\nwho fills and moves him. All other thoughts disappeared from his soul,\nand the universe seemed to him only as a vague mist in the midst of\nwhich beamed the shining phantom of Nyssia. His happiness transformed\nitself into ecstasy, and his love into madness. At times his very\nfelicity terrified him. To be only a wretched king, only a remote\ndescendant of a hero who had become a god by mighty labors, only a\ncommon man formed of flesh and bone, and without having in aught\nrendered himself worthy of it--without having even, like his ancestor,\nstrangled some hydra, or torn some lion asunder--to enjoy a happiness\nwhereof Zeus of the ambrosial hair would scarce be worthy, though lord\nof all Olympus! He felt, as it were, a shame to thus hoard up for\nhimself alone so rich a treasure, to steal this marvel from the world,\nto be the dragon with scales and claws who guarded the living type of\nthe ideal of lovers, sculptors, and poets. All they had ever dreamed of\nin their hope, their melancholy, and their despair, he possessed--he,\nCandaules, poor tyrant of Sardes, who had only a few wretched coffers\nfilled with pearls, a few cisterns filled with gold pieces, and thirty\nor forty thousand slaves, purchased or taken in war.\n\nCandaules's felicity was too great for him, and the strength which he\nwould doubtless have found at his command in time of misfortune was\nwanting to him in time of happiness. His joy overflowed from his soul\nlike water from a vase placed upon the fire, and in the exasperation of\nhis enthusiasm for Nyssia he had reached the point of desiring that she\nwere less timid and less modest, for it cost him no little effort to\nretain in his own breast the secret of such wondrous beauty.\n\n\"Ah,\" he would murmur to himself during the deep reveries which absorbed\nhim at all hours that he did not spend at the queen's side, \"how strange\na lot is mine! I am wretched because of that which would make any other\nhusband happy. Nyssia will not leave the shadow of the gyn\u00e6ceum, and\nrefuses, with barbarian modesty, to lift her veil in the presence of any\nother than myself. Yet with what an intoxication of pride would my love\nbehold her, radiantly sublime, gaze down upon my kneeling people from\nthe summit of the royal steps, and, like the rising dawn, extinguish all\nthose pale stars who during the night thought themselves suns! Proud\nLydian women, who believe yourselves beautiful, but for Nyssia's reserve\nyou would appear, even to your lovers, as ugly as the oblique-eyed and\nthick-lipped slaves of Nahasi and Kush. Were she but once to pass along\nthe streets of Sardes with face unveiled, you might in vain pull your\nadorers by the lappet of their tunic, for none of them would turn his\nhead, or, if he did, it would be to demand your name, so utterly would\nhe have forgotten you! They would rush to precipitate themselves beneath\nthe silver wheels of her chariot, that they might have even the pleasure\nof being crushed by her, like those devotees of the Indus who pave the\npathway of their idol with their bodies.\n\n\"And you, oh goddesses, whom Paris-Alexander judged, had Nyssia appeared\namong you, not one of you would have borne away the golden apple, not\neven Aphrodite, despite her cestus and her promise to the\nshepherd-arbiter that she would make him beloved by the most beautiful\nwoman in the world!...\n\n\"Alas! to think that such beauty is not immortal, and that years will\nalter those divine outlines, that admirable hymn of forms, that poem\nwhose strophes are contours, and which no one in the world has ever read\nor may ever read save myself; to be the sole depositary of so splendid a\ntreasure! If I knew even, by imitating the play of light and shadow with\nthe aid of lines and colors, how to fix upon wood a reflection of that\ncelestial face; if marble were not rebellious to my chisel, how well\nwould I fashion in the purest vein of Paros or Pentelicus an image of\nthat charming body, which would make the proud effigies of the goddesses\nfall from their altars! And long after, when deep below the slime of\ndeluges, and beneath the dust of ruined cities, the men of future ages\nshould find a fragment of that petrified shadow of Nyssia, they would\ncry: 'Behold, how the women of this vanished world were formed!' And\nthey would erect a temple wherein to enshrine the divine fragment. But I\nhave naught save a senseless admiration and a love that is madness! Sole\nadorer of an unknown divinity, I possess no power to spread her worship\nthrough the world.\"\n\nThus in Candaules had the enthusiasm of the artist extinguished the\njealousy of the lover. Admiration was mightier than love. If in place of\nNyssia, daughter of the Satrap Megabazus, all imbued with Oriental\nideas, he had espoused some Greek girl from Athens or Corinth, he would\ncertainly have invited to his court the most skilful painters and\nsculptors, and have given them the queen for their model, as did\nafterward Alexander his favorite Campaspe, who posed naked before\nApelles. Such a whim would have encountered no opposition from a woman\nof the land where even the most chaste made a boast of having\ncontributed--some for the back, some for the bosom--to the perfection\nof a famous statue. But hardly would the bashful Nyssia consent to\nunveil herself in the discreet shadow of the thalamus, and the earnest\nprayers of the king really shocked her rather than gave her pleasure.\nThe sentiment of duty and obedience alone induced her to yield at times\nto what she styled the whims of Candaules.\n\nSometimes he besought her to allow the flood of her hair to flow over\nher shoulders in a river of gold richer than the Pactolus, to encircle\nher brow with a crown of ivy and linden leaves like a Bacchante of Mount\nM\u00e6nalus, to lie, hardly veiled by a cloud of tissue finer than woven\nwind, upon a tiger-skin with silver claws and ruby eyes, or to stand\nerect in a great shell of mother-of-pearl, with a dew of pearls falling\nfrom her tresses in lieu of drops of sea-water.\n\nWhen he had placed himself in the best position for observation, he\nbecame absorbed in silent contemplation. His hand, tracing vague\ncontours in the air, seemed to be sketching the outlines for some\npicture, and he would have remained thus for whole hours if Nyssia, soon\nbecoming weary of her r\u00f4le of model, had not reminded him in chill and\ndisdainful tones that such amusements were unworthy of royal majesty and\ncontrary to the holy laws of matrimony. \"It is thus,\" she would exclaim,\nas she withdrew, draped to her very eyes, into the most mysterious\nrecesses of her apartment, \"that one treats a mistress, not a virtuous\nwoman of noble blood!\"\n\nThese wise remonstrances did not cure Candaules, whose passion augmented\nin inverse ratio to the coldness shown him by the queen. And it had at\nlast brought him to that point that he could no longer keep the secrets\nof the nuptial couch. A confidant became as necessary to him as to the\nprince of a modern tragedy. He did not proceed, you may feel assured, to\nfix his choice upon some crabbed philosopher of frowning mien, with a\nflood of gray-and-white beard rolling down over a mantle in proud\ntatters; nor a warrior who could talk of nothing save ballista,\ncatapults, and scythed chariots; nor a sententious Eupatrid full of\ncounsels and politic maxims; but Gyges, whose reputation for gallantry\ncaused him to be regarded as a connoisseur in regard to women.\n\nOne evening he laid his hand upon his shoulder in a more than ordinarily\nfamiliar and cordial manner, and after giving him a look of peculiar\nsignificance, he suddenly strode away from the group of courtiers,\nsaying in a loud voice:\n\n\"Gyges, come and give me your opinion in regard to my effigy, which the\nSicyon sculptors have just finished chiselling on the genealogical\nbas-relief where the deeds of my ancestors are celebrated.\"\n\n\"O king, your knowledge is greater than that of your humble subject, and\nI know not how to express my gratitude for the honor you do me in\ndeigning to consult me,\" replied Gyges, with a sign of assent.\n\nCandaules and his favorite traversed several halls ornamented in the\nHellenic style, where the Corinthian acanthus and the Ionic volute\nbloomed or curled in the capitals of the columns, where the friezes were\npeopled with little figures in polychromatic plastique representing\nprocessions and sacrifices, and they finally arrived at a remote portion\nof the ancient palace whose walls were built with stones of irregular\nform, put together without cement in the Cyclopean manner. This ancient\narchitecture was colossally proportioned and weirdly grim. The\nimmeasurable genius of the elder civilizations of the Orient was there\nlegibly written, and recalled the granite and brick debauches of Egypt\nand Assyria. Something of the spirit of the ancient architects of the\ntower of Lylax survived in those thick-set pillars with their\ndeep-fluted trunks, whose capitals were formed by four heads of bulls,\nplaced forehead to forehead, and bound together by knots of serpents\nthat seemed striving to devour them, an obscure cosmogonic symbol\nwhereof the meaning was no longer intelligible, and had descended into\nthe tomb with the hierophants of preceding ages. The gates were neither\nof a square nor rounded form. They described a sort of ogive much\nresembling the mitre of the Magi, and by their fantastic character gave\nstill more intensity to the character of the building.\n\nThis portion of the palace formed a sort of court surrounded by a\nportico whose architecture was ornamented with the genealogical\nbas-relief to which Candaules had alluded.\n\nIn the midst thereof sat Heracles upon a throne, with the upper part of\nhis body uncovered, and his feet resting upon a stool, according to the\nrite for the representation of divine personages. His colossal\nproportions would otherwise have left no doubt as to his apotheosis, and\nthe archaic rudeness and hugeness of the work, wrought by the chisel of\nsome primitive artist, imparted to his figure an air of barbaric\nmajesty, a savage grandeur more appropriate, perhaps, to the character\nof this monster-slaying hero than would have been the work of a sculptor\nconsummate in his art.\n\nOn the right of the throne were Alc\u00e6us, son of the hero and of Omphale;\nNinus, Belus, Argon, the earlier kings of the dynasty of the\nHeracleid\u00e6, then all the line of intermediate kings, terminating with\nArdys, Alyattes, Meles or Myrsus, father of Candaules, and finally\nCandaules himself.\n\nAll these personages, with their hair braided into little strings, their\nbeards spirally twisted, their oblique eyes, angular attitudes, cramped\nand stiff gestures, seemed to own a sort of factitious life, due to the\nrays of the setting sun, and the ruddy hue which time lends to marble in\nwarm climates. The inscriptions in antique characters, graven beside\nthem after the manner of legends, enhanced still more the mysterious\nweirdness of the long procession of figures in strange barbarian garb.\n\nBy a singular chance, which Gyges could not help observing, the statue\nof Candaules occupied the last available place at the right hand of\nHeracles; the dynastic cycle was closed, and in order to find a place\nfor the descendants of Candaules it would be absolutely necessary to\nbuild a new portico and commence the formation of a new bas-relief.\n\nCandaules, whose arm still rested on the shoulder of Gyges, walked\nslowly round the portico in silence. He seemed to hesitate to enter into\nthe subject, and had altogether forgotten the pretext under which he had\nled the captain of his guards into that solitary place.\n\n\"What would you do, Gyges,\" said Candaules, at last breaking the silence\nwhich had been growing painful to both, \"if you were a diver, and should\nbring up from the green bosom of the ocean a pearl of incomparable\npurity and lustre, and of worth so vast as to exhaust the richest\ntreasures of the earth?\"\n\n\"I would inclose it,\" answered Gyges, a little surprised at this brusque\nquestion, \"in a cedar box overlaid with plates of brass, and I would\nbury it under a detached rock in some desert place; and from time to\ntime, when I should feel assured that none could see me, I would go\nthither to contemplate my precious jewel and admire the colors of the\nsky mingling with its nacreous tints.\"\n\n\"And I,\" replied Candaules, his eye illuminated with enthusiasm, \"if I\npossessed so rich a gem, I would enshrine it in my diadem, that I might\nexhibit it freely to the eyes of all men, in the pure light of the sun,\nthat I might adorn myself with its splendor and smile with pride when I\nshould hear it said: 'Never did king of Assyria or Babylon, never did\nGreek or Trinacrian tyrant possess so lustrous a pearl as Candaules, son\nof Myrsus and descendant of Heracles, King of Sardes and of Lydia!\nCompared with Candaules, Midas, who changed all things to gold, were\nonly a mendicant as poor as Irus.'\"\n\nGyges listened with astonishment to this discourse of Candaules, and\nsought to penetrate the hidden sense of these lyric divagations. The\nking appeared to be in a state of extraordinary excitement: his eyes\nsparkled with enthusiasm; a feverish rosiness tinted his cheeks; his\ndilated nostrils inhaled the air with unusual effort.\n\n\"Well, Gyges,\" continued Candaules, without appearing to notice the\nuneasiness of his favorite, \"I am that diver. Amid this dark ocean of\nhumanity, wherein confusedly move so many defective or misshapen beings,\nso many forms incomplete or degraded, so many types of bestial\nugliness, wretched outlines of nature's experimental essays, I have\nfound beauty, pure, radiant, without spot, without flaw, the ideal made\nreal, the dream accomplished, a form which no painter or sculptor has\never been able to translate upon canvas or into marble--I have found\nNyssia!\"\n\n\"Although the queen has the timid modesty of the women of the Orient,\nand that no man save her husband has ever beheld her features, Fame,\nhundred-tongued and hundred-eared, has celebrated her praise throughout\nthe world,\" answered Gyges, respectfully inclining his head as he spoke.\n\n\"Mere vague, insignificant rumors. They say of her, as of all women not\nactually ugly, that she is more beautiful than Aphrodite or Helen; but\nno person could form even the most remote idea of such perfection. In\nvain have I besought Nyssia to appear unveiled at some public festival,\nsome solemn sacrifice, or to show herself for an instant leaning over\nthe royal terrace, bestowing upon her people the immense favor of one\nlook, the prodigality of one profile view, more generous than the\ngoddesses who permit their worshippers to behold only pale simulacra of\nivory or alabaster. She would never consent to that. Now there is one\nstrange thing which I blush to acknowledge even to you, dear Gyges.\nFormerly I was jealous; I wished to conceal my amours from all eyes, no\nshadow was thick enough, no mystery sufficiently impenetrable. Now I can\nno longer recognize myself. I have the feelings neither of a lover nor a\nhusband; my love has melted in adoration like thin wax in a fiery\nbrazier. All petty feelings of jealousy or possession have vanished. No,\nthe most finished work that heaven has ever given to earth, since the\nday that Prometheus held the flame under the right breast of the statue\nof clay, cannot thus be kept hidden in the chill shadow of the\ngyn\u00e6ceum. Were I to die, then the secret of this beauty would forever\nremain shrouded beneath the sombre draperies of widowhood! I feel myself\nculpable in its concealment, as though I had the sun in my house, and\nprevented it from illuminating the world. And when I think of those\nharmonious lines, those divine contours which I dare scarcely touch\nwith a timid kiss, I feel my heart ready to burst; I wish that some\nfriendly eye could share my happiness and, like a severe judge to whom a\npicture is shown, recognize after careful examination that it is\nirreproachable, and that the possessor has not been deceived by his\nenthusiasm. Yes, often do I feel myself tempted to tear off with rash\nhand those odious tissues, but Nyssia, in her fierce chastity, would\nnever forgive me. And still I cannot alone endure such felicity. I must\nhave a confidant for my ecstasies, an echo which will answer my cries of\nadmiration, and it shall be none other than you.\"\n\nHaving uttered these words, Candaules brusquely turned and disappeared\nthrough a secret passage. Gyges, left thus alone, could not avoid\nnoticing the peculiar concourse of events which seemed to place him\nalways in Nyssia's path. A chance had enabled him to behold her beauty,\nthough walled up from all other eyes. Among many princes and satraps she\nhad chosen to espouse Candaules, the very king he served; and through\nsome strange caprice, which he could only regard as fateful, this king\nhad just made him, Gyges, his confidant in regard to the mysterious\ncreature whom none else had approached, and absolutely sought to\ncomplete the work of Boreas on the plain of Bactria! Was not the hand of\nthe gods visible in all these circumstances? That spectre of beauty,\nwhose veil seemed to be lifted slowly, a little at a time, as though to\nenkindle a flame within him, was it not leading him, without his having\nsuspected it, toward the accomplishment of some mighty destiny? Such\nwere the questions which Gyges asked himself, but being unable to\npenetrate the obscurity of the future, he resolved to await the course\nof events, and left the Court of Images, where the twilight darkness was\ncommencing to pile itself up in all the angles, and to render the\neffigies of the ancestors of Candaules yet more and more weirdly\nmenacing.\n\nWas it a mere effort of light, or was it rather an illusion produced by\nthat vague uneasiness with which the boldest hearts are filled by the\napproach of night amid ancient monuments? As he stepped across the\nthreshold Gyges fancied that he heard deep groans issue from the stone\nlips of the bas-reliefs, and it seemed to him that Heracles was making\nenormous efforts to loosen his granite club.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nOn the following day Candaules again took Gyges aside and continued the\nconversation begun under the portico of the Heracleid\u00e6. Having freed\nhimself from the embarrassment of broaching the subject, he freely\nunbosomed himself to his confidant; and had Nyssia been able to overhear\nhim she might perhaps have been willing to pardon his conjugal\nindiscretions for the sake of his passionate eulogies of her charms.\n\nGyges listened to all these bursts of praise with the slightly\nconstrained air of one who is yet uncertain whether his interlocutor is\nnot feigning an enthusiasm more ardent than he actually feels, in order\nto provoke a confidence naturally cautious to utter itself. Candaules at\nlast said to him in a tone of disappointment: \"I see, Gyges, that you\ndo not believe me. You think I am boasting, or have allowed myself to be\nfascinated like some clumsy laborer by a robust country girl on whose\ncheeks Hygeia has crushed the gross hues of health. No, by all the gods!\nI have collected within my home, like a living bouquet, the fairest\nflowers of Asia and of Greece. I know all that the art of sculptors and\npainters has produced since the time of D\u00e6dalus, whose statues walked\nand spoke. Linus, Orpheus, Homer, have taught me harmony and rhythm. I\ndo not look about me with Love's bandage blind-folding my eyes. I judge\nof all things coolly. The passions of youth never influence my\nadmiration, and when I am as withered, decrepit, wrinkled, as Tithonus\nin his swaddling bands, my opinion will be still the same. But I forgive\nyour incredulity and want of sympathy. In order to understand me fully,\nit is necessary that you should see Nyssia in the radiant brilliancy of\nher shining whiteness, free from jealous drapery, even as nature with\nher own hands moulded her in a lost moment of inspiration which never\ncan return. This evening I will hide you in a corner of the bridal\nchamber ... you shall see her!\"\n\n\"Sire, what do you ask of me?\" returned the young warrior with\nrespectful firmness. \"How shall I, from the depths of my dust, from the\nabyss of my nothingness, dare to raise my eyes to this sun of\nperfections, at the risk of remaining blind for the rest of my life, or\nbeing able to see naught but a dazzling spectre in the midst of\ndarkness? Have pity on your humble slave, and do not compel him to an\naction so contrary to the maxims of virtue. No man should look upon what\ndoes not belong to him. We know that the immortals always punish those\nwho through imprudence or audacity surprise them in their divine nudity.\nNyssia is the loveliest of all women; you are the happiest of lovers and\nhusbands. Heracles, your ancestor, never found in the course of his many\nconquests aught to compare with your queen. If you, the prince of whom\neven the most skilful artists seek judgment and counsel--if you find her\nincomparable, of what consequence can the opinion of an obscure soldier\nlike me be to you? Abandon, therefore, this fantasy, which I presume to\nsay is unworthy of your royal majesty, and of which you would repent so\nsoon as it had been satisfied.\"\n\n\"Listen, Gyges,\" returned Candaules; \"I perceive that you suspect me;\nyou think that I seek to put you to some proof, but by the ashes of that\nfuneral pyre whence my ancestor arose a god, I swear to you that I speak\nfrankly and without any after-purpose.\"\n\n\"O Candaules, I doubt not of your good faith; your passion is sincere,\nbut perchance, after I should have obeyed you, you would conceive a deep\naversion to me, and learn to hate me for not having more firmly resisted\nyour will. You would seek to take back from these eyes, indiscreet\nthrough compulsion, the image which you allowed them to glance upon in a\nmoment of delirium; and who knows but that you would condemn them to the\neternal night of the tomb to punish them for remaining open at a moment\nwhen they ought to have been closed.\"\n\n\"Fear nothing; I pledge my royal word that no evil shall befall you.\"\n\n\"Pardon your slave if he still dares to offer some objection, even after\nsuch a promise. Have you reflected that what you propose to me is a\nviolation of the sanctity of marriage, a species of visual adultery? A\nwoman often lays aside her modesty with her garments; and once violated\nby a look, without having actually ceased to be virtuous, she might deem\nthat she had lost her flower of purity. You promise, indeed, to feel no\nresentment against me; but who can insure me against the wrath of\nNyssia, she who is so reserved and chaste, so apprehensive, fierce, and\nvirginal in her modesty that she might be deemed still ignorant of the\nlaws of Hymen? Should she ever learn of the sacrilege which I am about\nto render myself guilty of in deferring to my master's wishes, what\npunishment would she condemn me to suffer in expiation of such a crime?\nWho could place me beyond the reach of her avenging anger?\"\n\n\"I did not know you were so wise and prudent,\" said Candaules, with a\nslightly ironical smile; \"but such dangers are all imaginary, and I\nshall hide you in such a way that Nyssia will never know she has been\nseen by any one except her royal husband.\"\n\nBeing unable to offer any further defence, Gyges made a sign of assent\nin token of complete submission to the king's will. He had made all the\nresistance in his power, and thenceforward his conscience could feel at\nease in regard to whatever might happen; besides, by any further\nopposition to the will of Candaules, he would have feared to oppose\ndestiny itself, which seemed striving to bring him still nearer to\nNyssia for some grim ulterior purpose into which it was not given to him\nto see further.\n\nWithout actually being able to foresee any result, he beheld a thousand\nvague and shadowy images passing before his eyes. That subterranean\nlove, so long crouched at the foot of his soul's stairway, had climbed a\nfew steps higher, guided by some fitful glimmer of hope. The weight of\nthe impossible no longer pressed so heavily upon his breast, now that he\nbelieved himself aided by the gods. In truth, who would have dreamed\nthat the much-boasted charms of the daughter of Megabazus would ere\nlong cease to own any mystery for Gyges?\n\n\"Come, Gyges,\" said Candaules, taking him by the hand, \"let us make\nprofit of the time. Nyssia is walking in the garden with her women; let\nus look at the place, and plan our stratagems for this evening.\"\n\nThe king took his confidant by the hand and led him along the winding\nways which conducted to the nuptial apartment. The doors of the\nsleeping-room were made of cedar planks so perfectly put together that\nit was impossible to discover the joints. By dint of rubbing them with\nwool steeped in oil, the slaves had rendered the wood as polished as\nmarble. The brazen nails, with heads cut in facets, which studded them,\nhad all the brilliancy of the purest gold. A complicated system of\nstraps and metallic rings, whereof Candaules and his wife alone knew the\ncombination, served to secure them, for in those heroic ages the\nlock-smith's art was yet in its infancy.\n\nCandaules unloosed the knots, made the rings slide back upon the thongs,\nraised with a handle which fitted into a mortise the bar that fastened\nthe door from within, and bidding Gyges place himself against the wall,\nturned back one of the folding doors upon him in such a way as to hide\nhim completely; yet the door did not fit so perfectly to its frame of\noaken beams, all carefully polished and put up according to line by a\nskilful workman, that the young warrior could not obtain a distinct view\nof the chamber interior through the interstices contrived to give room\nfor the free play of the hinges.\n\nFacing the entrance, the royal bed stood upon an estrade of several\nsteps, covered with purple drapery. Columns of chased silver supported\nthe entablature, all ornamented with foliage wrought in relief, amid\nwhich Loves were sporting with dolphins, and heavy curtains embroidered\nwith gold surrounded it like the folds of a tent.\n\nUpon the altar of the household gods were placed vases of precious\nmetal, pater\u00e6 enamelled with flowers, double-handled cups, and all\nthings needful for libations.\n\nAlong the walls, which were faced with planks of cedar-wood,\nmarvellously worked, at regular intervals stood tall statues of black\nbasalt in the constrained attitudes of Egyptian art, each sustaining in\nits hand a bronze torch into which a splinter of resinous wood had been\nfitted.\n\nAn onyx lamp, suspended by a chain of silver, hung from that beam of the\nceiling which is called the black beam, because more exposed than the\nothers to the embrowning smoke. Every evening a slave carefully filled\nthis lamp with odoriferous oil.\n\nNear the head of the bed, on a little column, hung a trophy of arms,\nconsisting of a visored helmet, a twofold buckler made of four bull's\nhides and covered with plates of brass and tin, a two-edged sword, and\nseveral ashen javelins with brazen heads.\n\nThe tunics and mantles of Candaules were hung upon wooden pegs. They\ncomprised garments both simple and double; that is, capable of going\ntwice around the body. A mantle of thrice-dyed purple, ornamented with\nembroidery representing a hunting scene wherein Laconian hounds were\npursuing and tearing deer, and a tunic whereof the material, fine and\ndelicate as the skin which envelops an onion, had all the sheen of\nwoven sunbeams, were especially noticeable. Opposite to the trophy stood\nan arm-chair inlaid with silver and ivory upon which Nyssia hung her\ngarments. Its seat was covered with a leopard skin more eye-spotted than\nthe body of Argus, and its foot-support was richly adorned with\nopen-work carving.\n\n\"I am generally the first to retire,\" observed Candaules to Gyges, \"and\nI always leave this door open as it is now. Nyssia, who has invariably\nsome tapestry flower to finish, or some order to give her women, usually\ndelays a little in joining me; but at last she comes, and slowly takes\noff, one by one, as though the effort cost her dearly, and lays upon\nthat ivory chair all those draperies and tunics which by day envelop her\nlike mummy bandages. From your hiding-place you will be able to follow\nall her graceful movements, admire her unrivalled charms, and judge for\nyourself whether Candaules be a young fool prone to vain boasting, or\nwhether he does not really possess the richest pearl of beauty that ever\nadorned a diadem.\"\n\n\"O King, I can well believe your words without such a proof as this,\"\nreplied Gyges, stepping forth from his hiding-place.\n\n\"When she has laid aside her garments,\" continued Candaules, without\nheeding the exclamation of his confidant, \"she will come to lie down\nwith me. You must take advantage of the moment to steal away, for in\npassing from the chair to the bed she turns her back to the door. Step\nlightly as though you were treading upon ears of ripe wheat; take heed\nthat no grain of sand squeaks under your sandals; hold your breath, and\nretire as stealthily as possible. The vestibule is all in darkness, and\nthe feeble rays of the only lamp which remains burning do not penetrate\nbeyond the threshold of the chamber. It is therefore certain that Nyssia\ncannot possibly see you; and to-morrow there will be some one in the\nworld who can comprehend my ecstasies, and will feel no longer\nastonished at my bursts of admiration. But see, the day is almost spent;\nthe Sun will soon water his steeds in the Hesperian waves at the further\nend of the world, and beyond the Pillars erected by my ancestors. Return\nto your hiding-place, Gyges, and though the hours of waiting may seem\nlong, I can swear by Eros of the Golden Arrows that you will not regret\nhaving waited.\"\n\nAfter this assurance Candaules left Gyges again hidden behind the door.\nThe compulsory quiet which the king's young confidant found himself\nobliged to maintain left him ample leisure for thought. His situation\nwas certainly a most extraordinary one. He had loved Nyssia as one loves\na star. Convinced of the hopelessness of the undertaking, he had made no\neffort to approach her. And nevertheless, by a succession of\nextraordinary events he was about to obtain a knowledge of treasures\nreserved for lovers and husbands only. Not a word, not a glance had been\nexchanged between himself and Nyssia, who probably ignored the very\nexistence of the one being for whom her beauty would so soon cease to be\na mystery. Unknown to her whose modesty would have naught to sacrifice\nfor you, how strange a situation! To love a woman in secret and find\none's self led by her husband to the threshold of the nuptial chamber,\nto have for guide to that treasure the very dragon who should defend\nall approach to it, was there not in all this ample food for\nastonishment and wonder at the combination of events wrought by destiny?\n\nIn the midst of these reflections, he suddenly heard the sound of\nfootsteps on the pavement. It was only the slaves coming to replenish\nthe oil in the lamp, throw fresh perfumes upon the coals of the\n_klamklins,_ and arrange the purple and saffron-tinted sheepskins which\nformed the royal bed.\n\nThe hour approached, and Gyges felt his heart beat faster, and the\npulsation of his arteries quicken. He even felt a strong impulse to\nsteal away before the arrival of the queen, and, after averring\nsubsequently to Candaules that he had remained, abandon himself\nconfidently to the most extravagant eulogiums. He felt a strong\nrepugnance (for, despite his somewhat free life, Gyges was not without\ndelicacy) to take by stealth a favor for the free granting of which he\nwould gladly have paid with his life. The husband's complicity rendered\nthis theft more odious in a certain sense, and he would have preferred\nto owe to any other circumstance the happiness of beholding the marvel\nof Asia in her nocturnal toilet. Perhaps, indeed, the approach of\ndanger, let us acknowledge as veracious historians, had no little to do\nwith his virtuous scruples. Undoubtedly Gyges did not lack courage.\nMounted upon his war-chariot, with quiver rattling upon his shoulder,\nand bow in hand, he would have defied the most valiant warriors; in the\nchase he would have attacked without fear the Calydon boar or the Nemean\nlion; but--explain the enigma as you will--he trembled at the idea of\nlooking at a beautiful woman through a chink in a door. No one possesses\nevery kind of courage. He felt likewise that he could not behold Nyssia\nwith impunity. It would be a decisive epoch in his life. Through having\nobtained but a momentary glimpse of her he had lost all peace of mind;\nwhat, then, would be the result of that which was about to take place?\nCould life itself continue for him when to that divine head which fired\nhis dreams should be added a charming body formed for the kisses of the\nimmortals? What would become of him should he find himself unable\nthereafter to contain his passion in darkness and silence as he had done\ntill that time? Would he exhibit to the court of Lydia the ridiculous\nspectacle of an insane love, or would he strive by some extravagant\naction to bring down upon himself the disdainful pity of the queen? Such\na result was strongly probable, since the reason of Candaules himself,\nthe legitimate possessor of Nyssia, had been unable to resist the\nvertigo caused by that superhuman beauty--he, the thoughtless young king\nwho till then had laughed at love, and preferred pictures and statues\nbefore all things. These arguments were very rational but wholly\nuseless, for at the same moment Candaules entered the chamber, and\nexclaimed in a low but distinct voice as he passed the door:\n\n\"Patience, my poor Gyges, Nyssia will soon come.\"\n\nWhen he saw that he could no longer retreat, Gyges, who was but a young\nman after all, forgot every other consideration, and no longer thought\nof aught save the happiness of feasting his eyes upon the charming\nspectacle which Candaules was about to offer him. One cannot demand\nfrom a captain of twenty-five the austerity of a hoary philosopher.\n\nAt last a low whispering of raiment sweeping and trailing over marble,\ndistinctly audible in the deep silence of the night, announced the\napproach of the queen. In effect it was she. With a step as cadenced and\nrhythmic as an ode, she crossed the threshold of the thalamus, and the\nwind of her veil with its floating folds almost touched the burning\ncheek of Gyges, who felt well-nigh on the point of fainting, and found\nhimself compelled to seek the support of the wall; but soon recovering\nfrom the violence of his emotions, he approached the chink of the door,\nand took the most favorable position for enabling him to lose nothing of\nthe scene whereof he was about to be an invisible witness.\n\nNyssia advanced to the ivory chair and commenced to detach the pins,\nterminated by hollow balls of gold, which fastened her veil upon her\nhead; and Gyges from the depths of the shadow-filled angle where he\nstood concealed could examine at his ease the proud and charming face\nof which he had before obtained only a hurried glimpse; that rounded\nneck, at once delicate and powerful, whereon Aphrodite had traced with\nthe nail of her little finger those three faint lines which are still at\nthis very day known as the \"necklace of Venus;\" that white nape on whose\nalabaster surface little wild, rebellious curls were disporting and\nentwining themselves; those silver shoulders, half rising from the\nopening of the chlamys, like the moon's disk emerging from an opaque\ncloud. Candaules, half reclining upon his cushions, gazed with fondness\nupon his wife, and thought to himself: \"Now Gyges, who is so cold, so\ndifficult to please, and so skeptical, must be already half convinced.\"\n\nOpening a little coffer which stood on a table supported by one leg\nterminating in carven lion's paws, the queen freed her beautiful arms\nfrom the weight of the bracelets and jewelry wherewith they had been\noverburdened during the day--arms whose form and whiteness might well\nhave enabled them to compare with those of Hera, sister and wife of\nZeus, the lord of Olympus. Precious as were her jewels, they were\nassuredly not worth the spots which they concealed, and had Nyssia been\na coquette, one might have well supposed that she only donned them in\norder that she should be entreated to take them off. The rings and\nchased work had left upon her skin, fine and tender as the interior pulp\nof a lily, light rosy imprints, which she soon dissipated by rubbing\nthem with her little taper-fingered hand, all rounded and slender at its\nextremities.\n\nThen with the movement of a dove trembling in the snow of its feathers,\nshe shook her hair, which being no longer held by the golden pins,\nrolled down in languid spirals like hyacinth flowers over her back and\nbosom. Thus she remained for a few moments ere reassembling the\nscattered curls and finally reuniting them into one mass. It was\nmarvellous to watch the blond ringlets streaming like jets of liquid\ngold between the silver of her fingers; and her arms undulating like\nswans' necks as they were arched above her head in the act of twisting\nand confining the natural bullion. If you have ever by chance examined\none of those beautiful Etruscan vases with red figures on a black\nground, and decorated with one of those subjects which are designated\nunder the title of \"Greek Toilette,\" then you will have some idea of the\ngrace of Nyssia in that attitude which, from the age of antiquity to our\nown era, has furnished such a multitude of happy designs for painters\nand statuaries.\n\nHaving thus arranged her coiffure, she seated herself upon the edge of\nthe ivory footstool and commenced to untie the little bands which\nfastened her buskins. We moderns, owing to our horrible system of\nfootgear, which is hardly less absurd than the Chinese shoe, no longer\nknow what a foot is. That of Nyssia was of a perfection rare even in\nGreece and antique Asia. The great toe, a little apart like the thumb of\na bird, the other toes, slightly long, and all ranged in charming\nsymmetry, the nails well shaped and brilliant as agates, the ankles well\nrounded and supple, the heel slightly tinted with a rosy hue--nothing\nwas wanting to the perfection of the little member. The leg attached to\nthis foot, and which gleamed like polished marble under the lamp-light,\nwas irreproachable in the purity of its outlines and the grace of its\ncurves.\n\nGyges, lost in contemplation, though all the while fully comprehending\nthe madness of Candaules, said to himself that had the gods bestowed\nsuch a treasure upon him he would have known how to keep it to himself.\n\n\"Well, Nyssia, are you not coming to sleep with me?\" exclaimed\nCandaules, seeing that the queen was not hurrying herself in the least,\nand feeling desirous to abridge the watch of Gyges.\n\n\"Yes, my dear lord, I will soon be ready,\" answered Nyssia.\n\nAnd she detached the cameo which fastened the peplum upon her shoulder.\nThere remained only the tunic to let fall. Gyges, behind the door, felt\nhis veins hiss through his temples; his heart beat so violently that he\nfeared it must make itself heard in the chamber, and to repress its\nfierce pulsations he pressed his hand upon his bosom; and when Nyssia,\nwith a movement of careless grace, unfastened the girdle of her tunic,\nhe thought his knees would give way beneath him.\n\nNyssia--was it an instinctive presentiment, or was her skin, virginally\npure from profane looks, so delicately magnetic in its susceptibility\nthat it could feel the rays of a passionate eye though that eye was\ninvisible--Nyssia hesitated to strip herself of that tunic, the last\nrampart of her modesty. Twice or thrice her shoulders, her bosom, and\nbare arms shuddered with a nervous chill, as though they had been\nsuddenly grazed by the wings of a nocturnal butterfly, or as though an\ninsolent lip had dared to touch them in the darkness.\n\nAt last, seeming to nerve herself for a sudden resolve, she doffed the\ntunic in its turn; and the white poem of her divine body suddenly\nappeared in all its splendor, like the statue of a goddess unveiled on\nthe day of a temple's inauguration. Shuddering with pleasure the light\nglided and gloated over those exquisite forms, and covered them with\ntimid kisses, profiting by an occasion, alas, rare indeed! The rays\nscattered through the chamber, disdaining to illuminate golden arms,\njewelled clasps, or brazen tripods, all concentrated themselves upon\nNyssia, and left all other objects in obscurity. Were we Greeks of the\nage of Pericles we might at our ease eulogize those beautiful serpentine\nlines, those polished flanks, those elegant curves, those breasts which\nmight have served as moukis for the cup of Hebe; but modern prudery\nforbids such descriptions, for the pen cannot find pardon for what is\npermitted to the chisel; and besides, there are some things which can be\nwritten of only in marble.\n\nCandaules smiled in proud satisfaction. With a rapid step, as though\nashamed of being so beautiful, for she was only the daughter of a man\nand a woman, Nyssia approached the bed, her arms folded upon her bosom;\nbut with a sudden movement she turned round ere taking her place upon\nthe couch beside her royal spouse, and beheld through the aperture of\nthe door a gleaming eye flaming like the carbuncle of Oriental legend;\nfor if it were false that she had a double pupil, and that she possessed\nthe stone which is found in the heads of dragons, it was at least true\nthat her green glance penetrated darkness like the glaucous eye of the\ncat and tiger.\n\nA cry, like that of a fawn who receives an arrow in her flank while\ntranquilly dreaming among the leafy shadows, was on the point of\nbursting from her lips, yet she found strength to control herself, and\nlay down beside Candaules, cold as a serpent, with the violets of death\nupon her cheeks and lips. Not a muscle of her limbs quivered, not a\nfibre of her body palpitated, and soon her slow, regular breathing\nseemed to indicate that Morpheus had distilled his poppy juice upon her\neyelids.\n\nShe had divined and comprehended all.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nGyges, trembling and distracted with passion, had retired, following\nexactly the instructions of Candaules; and if Nyssia, through some\nunfortunate chance, had not turned her head ere taking her place upon\nthe couch, and perceived him in the act of taking flight, doubtless she\nwould have remained forever unconscious of the outrage done to her\ncharms by a husband more passionate than scrupulous.\n\nAccustomed to the winding corridors of the palace, the young warrior had\nno difficulty in finding his way out. He passed through the city at a\nreckless pace like a madman escaped from Anticyra, and by making himself\nknown to the sentinels who guarded the ramparts, he had the gates opened\nfor him and gained the fields beyond. His brain burned, his cheeks\nflamed as with the fires of fever; his breath came hotly panting through\nhis lips; he flung himself down upon the meadow-sod humid with the tears\nof the night; and at last hearing in the darkness, through the thick\ngrass and water-plants, the silvery respiration of a Naiad, he dragged\nhimself to the spring, plunged his hands and arms into the crystal\nflood, bathed his face, and drank several mouthfuls of the water in the\nhope to cool the ardor which was devouring him. Any one who could have\nseen him thus hopelessly bending over the spring in the feeble\nstarlight would have taken him for Narcissus pursuing his own shadow;\nbut it was not of himself assuredly that Gyges was enamoured.\n\nThe rapid apparition of Nyssia had dazzled his eyes like the keen zigzag\nof a lightning-flash. He beheld her floating before him in a luminous\nwhirlwind, and felt that never through all his life could he banish that\nimage from his vision. His love had grown to vastness; its flower had\nsuddenly burst, like those plants which open their blossoms with a clap\nof thunder. To master his passion were henceforth a thing impossible: as\nwell counsel the empurpled waves which Poseidon lifts with his trident\nto lie tranquilly in their bed of sand and cease to foam upon the rocks\nof the shore. Gyges was no longer master of himself, and he felt a\nmiserable despair, as of a man riding in a chariot, who finds his\nterrified and uncontrollable horses rushing with all the speed of a\nfurious gallop toward some rock-bristling precipice. A hundred thousand\nprojects, each wilder than the last, whirled confusedly through his\nbrain. He blasphemed Destiny, he cursed his mother for having given him\nlife, and the gods that they had not caused him to be born to a throne,\nfor then he might have been able to espouse the daughter of the satrap.\n\nA frightful agony gnawed at his heart; he was jealous of the king. From\nthe moment of the tunic's fall at the feet of Nyssia, like the flight of\na white dove alighting upon a meadow, it had seemed to him that she\nbelonged to him; he deemed himself despoiled of his wealth by Candaules.\nIn all his amorous reveries he had never until then thought of the\nhusband; he had thought of the queen only as of a pure abstraction,\nwithout representing to himself in fancy all those intimate details of\nconjugal familiarity, so poignant, so bitter for those who love a woman\nin the power of another. Now he had beheld Nyssia's blonde head bending\nlike a blossom beside the dark head of Candaules. The very thought of it\nhad inflamed his anger to the highest degree, although a moment's\nreflection should have convinced him that things could not have come to\npass otherwise, and he felt growing within him a most unjust hatred\nagainst his master. The act of having compelled his presence at the\nqueen's dishabille seemed to him a barbarous irony, an odious refinement\nof cruelty, for he did not remember that his love for her could not have\nbeen known by the king, who had sought in him only a confidant of easy\nmorals and a connoisseur in beauty. That which he ought to have regarded\nas a great favor affected him like a mortal injury for which he was\nmeditating vengeance. While thinking that to-morrow the same scene of\nwhich he had been a mute and invisible witness would infallibly renew\nitself, his tongue clove to his palate, his forehead became imbeaded\nwith drops of cold sweat, and his hand convulsively grasped the hilt of\nhis great double-edged sword.\n\nNevertheless, thanks to the freshness of the night, that excellent\ncounsellor, he became a little calmer, and returned to Sardes before the\nmorning light had become bright enough to enable a few early rising\ncitizens and slaves to notice the pallor of his brow and the disorder of\nhis apparel. He betook himself to his regular post at the palace, well\nsuspecting that Candaules would shortly send for him; and, however\nviolent the agitation of his feelings, he felt he was not powerful\nenough to brave the anger of the king, and could in no way escape\nsubmitting again to this _r\u00f4le_ of confidant, which could thenceforth\nonly inspire him with horror. Having arrived at the palace, he seated\nhimself upon the steps of the cypress-panelled vestibule, leaned his\nback against a column, and, under the pretext of being fatigued by the\nlong vigil under arms, he covered his head with his mantle and feigned\nsleep to avoid answering the questions of the other guards.\n\nIf the night had been terrible to Gyges, it had not been less so to\nNyssia, as she never for an instant doubted that he had been purposely\nhidden there by Candaules. The king's persistency in begging her not to\nveil so austerely a face which the gods had made for the admiration of\nmen, his evident vexation upon her refusal to appear in Greek costume at\nthe sacrifices and public solemnities, his unsparing raillery at what he\ntermed her barbarian shyness, all tended to convince her that the young\nHeracleid had sought to admit some one into those mysteries which\nshould remain secret to all, for without his encouragement no man could\nhave dared to risk himself in an undertaking the discovery of which\nwould have resulted in the punishment of a speedy death.\n\nHow slowly did the black hours seem to her to pass! How anxiously did\nshe await the coming of dawn to mingle its bluish tints with the yellow\ngleams of the almost exhausted lamp! It seemed to her that Apollo would\nnever mount his chariot again, and that some invisible hand was\nsustaining the sand of the hour-glass in air. Though brief as any other,\nthat night seemed to her like the Cimmerian nights, six long months of\ndarkness.\n\nWhile it lasted she lay motionless and rigid at full length on the very\nedge of her couch in dread of being touched by Candaules. If she had not\nup to that night felt a very strong love for the son of Myrsus, she had,\nat least, ever exhibited toward him that grave and serene tenderness\nwhich every virtuous woman entertains for her husband, although the\naltogether Greek freedom of his morals frequently displeased her, and\nthough he entertained ideas at variance with her own in regard to\nmodesty; but after such an affront she could only feel the chilliest\nhatred and most icy contempt for him; she would have preferred even\ndeath to one of his caresses. Such an outrage it was impossible to\nforgive, for among the barbarians, and above all among the Persians and\nBactrians, it was held a great disgrace, not for women only, but even\nfor men, to be seen without their garments.\n\nAt length Candaules arose, and Nyssia, awaking from her simulated sleep,\nhurried from that chamber now profaned in her eyes as though it had\nserved for the nocturnal orgies of Bacchantes and courtesans. It was\nagony for her to breathe that impure air any longer, and that she might\nfreely give herself up to her grief she took refuge in the upper\napartments reserved for the women, summoned her slaves by clapping her\nhands, and poured ewers of water over her shoulders, her bosom, and her\nwhole body, as, though hoping by this species of lustral ablution to\nefface the soil imprinted by the eyes of Gyges. She would have\nvoluntarily torn, as it were, from her body that skin upon which the\nrays shot from a burning pupil seemed to have left their traces. Taking\nfrom the hands of her waiting women the thick downy materials which\nserved to drink up the last pearls of the bath, she wiped herself with\nsuch violence that a slight purple cloud rose to the spots she had\nrubbed.\n\n\"In vain,\" she exclaimed, letting the damp tissues fall, and dismissing\nher attendants--\"in vain would I pour over myself all the waters of all\nthe springs and the rivers; the ocean with all its bitter gulfs could\nnot purify me. Such a stain may be washed out only with blood. Oh, that\nlook, that look! It has incrusted itself upon me; it clasps me, covers\nme, burns me like the tunic dipped in the blood of Nessus; I feel it\nbeneath my draperies, like an envenomed tissue which nothing can detach\nfrom my body! Now, indeed, would I vainly pile garments upon garments,\nselect materials the least transparent, and the thickest of mantles. I\nwould none the less bear upon my naked flesh this infamous robe woven by\none adulterous and lascivious glance. Vainly, since the hour when I\nissued from the chaste womb of my mother, have I been brought up in\nprivate, enveloped like Isis, the Egyptian goddess, with a veil of which\nnone might have lifted the hem without paying for his audacity with his\nlife. In vain have I remained guarded from all evil desires, from all\nprofane imaginings, unknown of men, virgin as the snow on which the\neagle himself could not imprint the seal of his talons, so loftily does\nthe mountain which it covers lift its head in the pure and icy air. The\ndepraved caprice of a Lydian Greek has sufficed to make me lose in a\nsingle instant, without any guilt of mine, all the fruit of long years\nof precaution and reserve. Innocent and dishonored, hidden from all yet\nmade public to all ... this is the lot to which Candaules has condemned\nme. Who can assure me that, at this very moment, Gyges is not in the act\nof discoursing upon my charms with some soldiers at the very threshold\nof the palace? Oh shame! Oh infamy! Two men have beheld me naked and yet\nat this instant enjoy the sweet light of the sun! In what does Nyssia\nnow differ from the most shameless hetaira, from the vilest of\ncourtesans? This body which I have striven to render worthy of being the\nhabitation of a pure and noble soul, serves for a theme of conversation;\nit is talked of like some lascivious idol brought from Sicyon or from\nCorinth; it is commended or found fault with. The shoulder is perfect,\nthe arm is charming, perhaps a little thin--what know I? All the blood\nof my heart leaps to my cheeks at such a thought. Oh beauty, fatal gift\nof the gods! why am I not the wife of some poor mountain goatherd of\ninnocent and simple habits? He would not have suborned a goatherd like\nhimself at the threshold of his cabin to profane his humble happiness!\nMy lean figure, my unkempt hair, my complexion faded by the burning sun,\nwould then have saved me from so gross an insult, and my honest\nhomeliness would not have been compelled to blush. How shall I dare,\nafter the scene of this night, to pass before those men, proudly erect\nunder the folds of a tunic which has no longer aught to hide from either\nof them. I should drop dead with shame upon the pavement. Candaules,\nCandaules, I was at least entitled to more respect from you, and there\nwas nothing in my conduct which could have provoked such an outrage. Was\nI one of those ones whose arms forever cling like ivy to their husbands'\nnecks, and who seem more like slaves bought with money for a master's\npleasure than free-born women of noble blood? Have I ever after a repast\nsung amorous hymns accompanying myself upon the lyre, with wine-moist\nlips, naked shoulders, and a wreath of roses about my hair, or given you\ncause, by any immodest action, to treat me like a mistress whom one\nshows after a banquet to his companions in debauch?\"\n\nWhile Nyssia was thus buried in her grief, great tears overflowed from\nher eyes like rain-drops from the azure chalice of a lotus-flower after\nsome storm, and rolling down her pale cheeks fell upon her fair forlorn\nhands, languishingly open, like roses whose leaves are half-shed, for no\norder came from the brain to give them activity. The attitude of Niobe,\nbeholding her fourteenth child succumb beneath the arrows of Apollo and\nDiana, was not more sadly despairing, but soon starting from this state\nof prostration, she rolled herself upon the floor, rent her garments,\ncovered her beautiful dishevelled hair with ashes, tore her bosom and\ncheeks with her nails amid convulsive sobs, and abandoned herself to all\nthe excesses of Oriental grief, the more violently that she had been\nforced so long to contain her indignation, shame, pangs of wounded\ndignity, and all the agony that convulsed her soul, for the pride of her\nwhole life had been broken, and the idea that she had nothing wherewith\nto reproach herself afforded her no consolation. As a poet has said,\nonly the innocent know remorse. She was repenting of the crime which\nanother had committed.\n\nNevertheless she made an effort to recover herself, ordered the baskets\nfilled with wools of different colors, and the spindles wrapped with\nflax to be brought to her, and distributed the work to her women as she\nhad been accustomed to do; but she thought she noticed that the slaves\nlooked at her in a very peculiar way, and had ceased to entertain the\nsame timid respect for her as before. Her voice no longer rang with the\nsame assurance; there was something humble and furtive in her demeanor;\nshe felt herself interiorly fallen.\n\nDoubtless her scruples were exaggerated, and her virtue had received no\nstain from the folly of Candaules; but ideas imbibed with a mother's\nmilk obtain irresistible sway, and the modesty of the body is carried by\nOriental nations to an extent almost incomprehensible to Occidental\nraces. When a man desired to speak to Nyssia in the palace of Megabazus\nat Bactria, he was obliged to do so keeping his eyes fixed upon the\nground, and two eunuchs stood beside him, poniard in hand, ready to\nplunge their keen blades through his heart should he dare lift his head\nto look at the princess, notwithstanding that her face was veiled. You\nmay readily conceive, therefore, how deadly an injury the action of\nCandaules would seem to a woman thus brought up, while any other would\ndoubtless have considered it only a culpable frivolity. Thus the idea of\nvengeance had instantly presented itself to Nyssia, and had given her\nsufficient self-control to strangle the cry of her offended modesty ere\nit reached her lips, at the moment when, turning her head, she beheld\nthe burning eyes of Gyges flaming through the darkness. She must have\npossessed the courage of the warrior in ambush, who, wounded by a random\ndart, utters no syllable of pain through fear of betraying himself\nbehind his shelter of foliage or river-reeds, and in silence permits his\nblood to stripe his flesh with long red lines. Had she not withheld that\nfirst impulse to cry aloud, Candaules, alarmed and forewarned, would\nhave kept upon his guard, which must have rendered it more difficult, if\nnot impossible, to carry out her purpose.\n\nNevertheless, as yet she had conceived no definite plan, but she had\nresolved that the insult done to her honor should be fully expiated. At\nfirst she had thought of killing Candaules herself while he slept, with\nthe sword hung at the bedside. But she recoiled from the thought of\ndipping her beautiful hands in blood; she feared lest she might miss her\nblow; and, with all her bitter anger, she hesitated at so violent and\nunwomanly an act.\n\nSuddenly she appeared to have decided upon some project. She summoned\nStatira, one of the waiting women who had come with her from Bactria,\nand in whom she placed much confidence, and whispered a few words close\nto her ear in a very low voice, although there were no other persons in\nthe room, as if she feared that even the walls might hear her.\n\nStatira bowed low, and immediately left the apartment.\n\nLike all persons who are actually menaced by some great peril, Candaules\npresumed himself perfectly secure. He was certain that Gyges had stolen\naway unperceived, and he thought only upon the delight of conversing\nwith him about the unrivalled attractions of his wife.\n\nSo he caused him to be summoned, and conducted him to the Court of the\nHeracleid\u00e6.\n\n\"Well, Gyges,\" he said to him with laughing mien, \"I did not deceive you\nwhen I assured you that you would not regret having passed a few hours\nbehind that blessed door. Am I right? Do you know of any living woman\nmore beautiful than the queen? If you know of any superior to her, tell\nme so frankly, and go bear her in my name this string of pearls, the\nsymbol of power.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" replied Gyges in a voice trembling with emotion, \"no human\ncreature is worthy to compare with Nyssia. It is not the pearl fillet of\nqueens which should adorn her brows, but only the starry crown of the\nimmortals.\"\n\n\"I well knew that your ice must melt at last in the fires of that sun.\nNow can you comprehend my passion, my delirium, my mad desires? Is it\nnot true, Gyges, that the heart of a man is not great enough to contain\nsuch a love? It must overflow and diffuse itself.\"\n\nA hot blush overspread the cheeks of Gyges, who now but too well\ncomprehended the admiration of Candaules.\n\nThe king noticed it, and said, with a manner half smiling, half serious:\n\n\"My poor friend, do not commit the folly of becoming enamoured of\nNyssia; you would lose your pains. It is a statue which I have enabled\nyou to see, not a woman. I have allowed you to read some stanzas of a\nbeautiful poem, whereof I alone possess the manuscript, merely for the\npurpose of having your opinion; that is all.\"\n\n\"You have no need, sire, to remind me of my nothingness. Sometimes the\nhumblest slave is visited in his slumbers by some radiant and lovely\nvision, with ideal forms, nacreous flesh, ambrosial hair. I--I have\ndreamed with open eyes; you are the god who sent me that dream.\"\n\n\"Now,\" continued the king, \"it will scarcely be necessary for me to\nenjoin silence upon you. If you do not keep a seal upon your lips you\nmight learn to your cost that Nyssia is not as good as she is\nbeautiful.\"\n\nThe king waved his hand in token of fare-well to his confidant, and\nretired for the purpose of inspecting an antique bed sculptured by\nIkmalius, a celebrated artisan, which had been offered him for purchase.\n\nCandaules had scarcely disappeared when a woman, wrapped in a long\nmantle so as to leave but one of her eyes exposed, after the fashion of\nthe barbarians, came forth from the shadow of a column behind which she\nhad kept herself hidden during the conversation of the king and his\nfavorite, walked straight to Gyges, placed her finger upon his shoulder,\nand made a sign to him to follow her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nStatira, followed by Gyges, paused before a little door, of which she\nraised the latch by pulling a silver ring attached to a leathern strap,\nand commenced to ascend a stairway with rather high steps contrived in\nthe thickness of the wall. At the head of the stairway was a second\ndoor, which she opened with a key wrought of ivory and brass. As soon as\nGyges entered she disappeared without any further explanation in regard\nto what was expected of him.\n\nThe curiosity of Gyges was mingled with uneasiness. He could form no\nidea as to the significance of this mysterious message. He had a vague\nfancy that he could recognize in the silent Iris one of Nyssia's women;\nand the way by which she had made him follow low her led to the queen's\napartments. He asked himself in terror whether he had been perceived in\nhis hiding-place or betrayed by Candaules, for both suppositions seemed\nprobable.\n\nAt the idea that Nyssia knew all, he felt his face bedewed with a sweat\nalternately burning and icy. He sought to fly, but the door had been\nfastened upon him by Statira, and all escape was cut off; then he\nadvanced into the chamber, which was shadowed by heavy purple hangings,\nand found himself face to face with Nyssia. He thought he beheld a\nstatue rise before him, such was her pallor. The hues of life had\nabandoned her face; a feeble rose tint alone animated her lips; on her\ntender temples a few almost imperceptible veins intercrossed their azure\nnetwork; tears had swollen her eyelids, and left shining furrows upon\nthe down of her cheeks; the chrysoprase tints of her eyes had lost their\nintensity. She was even more beautiful and touching thus. Sorrow had\ngiven soul to her marmorean beauty.\n\nHer disordered robe, scarcely fastened to her shoulders, left visible\nher beautiful bare arms, her throat, and the commencement of her\ndeath-white bosom. Like a warrior vanquished in his first conflict, her\nbeauty had laid down its arms. Of what use to her would have been the\ndraperies which conceal form, the tunics with their carefully fastened\nfolds? Did not Gyges know her? Wherefore defend what has been lost in\nadvance?\n\nShe walked straight to Gyges, and fixing upon him an imperial look,\nclear and commanding, said to him, in a quick, abrupt voice:\n\n\"Do not lie; seek no vain subterfuges; have at least the dignity and\ncourage of your crime. I know all; I saw you! Not a word of excuse. I\nwould not listen to it. Candaules himself concealed you behind the door.\nIs it not so the thing happened? And you fancy, doubtless, that it is\nall over? Unhappily I am not a Greek woman, pliant to the whims of\nartists and voluptuaries. Nyssia will not serve for any one's toy. There\nare now two men, one of whom is a man too much upon the earth. He must\ndisappear from it! Unless he dies, I cannot live. It will be either you\nor Candaules. I leave you master of the choice. Kill him, avenge me,\nand win by that murder both my hand and the throne of Lydia, or else\nshall a prompt death henceforth prevent you from beholding, through a\ncowardly complaisance, what you have not the right to look upon. He who\ncommanded is more culpable than he who has only obeyed; and, moreover,\nshould you become my husband, no one will have ever seen me without\nhaving the right to do so. But make your decision at once, for two of\nthose four eyes in which my nudity has reflected itself must before this\nvery evening be forever extinguished.\"\n\nThis strange alternative, proposed with a terrible coolness, with an\nimmutable resolution, so utterly surprised Gyges, who was expecting\nreproaches, menaces, and a violent scene, that he remained for several\nminutes without color and without voice, livid as a shade on the shores\nof the black rivers of hell.\n\n\"I! to dip my hands in the blood of my master! Is it indeed you, O\nQueen, who demand of me so great a penalty? I comprehend all your\nanger, I feel it to be just, and it was not my fault that this outrage\ntook place; but you know that kings are mighty, they descend from a\ndivine race. Our destinies repose on their august knees; and it is not\nwe, feeble mortals, who may hesitate at their commands. Their will\noverthrows our refusal, as a dyke is swept away by a torrent. By your\nfeet that I kiss, by the hem of your robe which I touch as a suppliant,\nbe clement! Forget this injury, which is known to none, and which shall\nremain eternally buried in darkness and silence! Candaules worships you,\nadmires you, and his fault springs only from an excess of love.\n\n\"Were you addressing a sphinx of granite in the arid sands of Egypt, you\nwould have more chance of melting her. The winged words might fly\nuninterruptedly from your lips for a whole olympiad; you could not move\nmy resolution in the slightest. A heart of brass dwells in this marble\nbreast of mine. Die or kill! When the sunbeam which has passed through\nthe curtains shall touch the foot of this table let your choice have\nbeen made. I wait.\"\n\nAnd Nyssia crossed her arms upon her breast in an attitude replete with\nsombre majesty.\n\nTo behold her standing erect, motionless and pale, her eyes fixed, her\nbrows contracted, her hair in disorder, her foot firmly placed upon the\npavement, one would have taken her for Nemesis descended from her\ngriffin, and awaiting the hour to smite a guilty one.\n\n\"The shadowy depths of Hades are visited by none with pleasure,\"\nanswered Gyges. \"It is sweet to enjoy the pure light of day; and the\nheroes themselves who dwell in the Fortunate Isles would gladly return\nto their native land. Each man has the instinct of self-preservation,\nand since blood must flow, let it be rather from the veins of another\nthan from mine.\"\n\nTo these sentiments, avowed by Gyges with antique frankness, were added\nothers more noble whereof he did not speak. He was desperately in love\nwith Nyssia and jealous of Candaules. It was not, therefore, the fear of\ndeath alone that had induced him to undertake this bloody task. The\nthought of leaving Candaules in free possession of Nyssia was\ninsupportable to him; and, moreover, the vertigo of fatality had seized\nhim. By a succession of irregular and terrible events he beheld himself\nhurried toward the realization of his dreams; a mighty wave had lifted\nhim and borne him on in despite of his efforts; Nyssia herself was\nextending her hand to him, to help him to ascend the steps of the royal\nthrone. All this had caused him to forget that Candaules was his master\nand his benefactor; for none can flee from Fate, and Necessity walks on\nwith nails in one hand and whip in the other, to stop your advance or to\nurge you forward.\n\n\"It is well,\" replied Nyssia; \"here is the means of execution.\" And she\ndrew from her bosom a Bactrian poniard, with a jade handle enriched with\ninlaid circles of white gold. \"This blade is not made of brass, but with\niron difficult to work, tempered in flame and water, so that Hephaistos\nhimself could not forge one more keenly pointed or finely edged. It\nwould pierce, like thin papyrus, metal cuirasses and bucklers of\ndragon's skin.\n\n\"The time,\" she continued with the same icy coolness, \"shall be while he\nslumbers. Let him sleep and wake no more!\"\n\nHer accomplice, Gyges, hearkened to her words with stupefaction, for he\nhad never thought he could find such resolution in a woman who could not\nbring herself to lift her veil.\n\n\"The ambuscade shall be laid in the very same place where the infamous\none concealed you in order to expose me to your gaze. At the approach of\nnight I shall turn back one of the folding doors upon you, undress\nmyself, lie down, and when he shall be asleep I will give you a signal.\nAbove all things, let there be no hesitancy, no feebleness; and take\nheed that your hand does not tremble when the moment shall have come!\nAnd now, for fear lest you might change your mind, I propose to make\nsure of your person until the fatal hour. You might attempt to escape,\nto forewarn your master. Do not think to do so.\"\n\nNyssia whistled in a peculiar way, and immediately from behind a Persian\ntapestry embroidered with flowers, there appeared four monsters,\nswarthy, clad in robes diagonally striped, which left visible arms\nmuscled and gnarled as trunks of oaks. Their thick pouting lips, the\ngold rings which they wore through the partition of their nostrils,\ntheir great teeth sharp as the fangs of wolves, the expression of stupid\nservility on their faces, rendered them hideous to behold.\n\nThe queen pronounced some words in a language unknown to Gyges,\ndoubtless in Bactrian, and the four slaves rushed upon the young man,\nseized him, and carried him away, even as a nurse might carry off a\nchild in the fold of her robe.\n\nNow what were Nyssia's real thoughts? Had she, indeed, noticed Gyges at\nthe time of her meeting with him near Bactria, and preserved some memory\nof the young captain in one of those secret recesses of the heart where\neven the most virtuous women always have something buried? Was the\ndesire to avenge her modesty goaded by some other unacknowledged desire?\nAnd if Gyges had not been the handsomest young man in all Asia would she\nhave evinced the same ardor in punishing Candaules for having outraged\nthe sanctity of marriage? That is a delicate question to resolve,\nespecially after a lapse of three thousand years; and although we have\nconsulted Herodotus, Heph\u00e6stion, Plato, Dositheus, Archilochus of\nParos, Hesychius of Miletus, Ptolom\u00e6us, Euphorion, and all who have\nspoken either at length or in only a few words concerning Candaules,\nNyssia, and Gyges, we have been unable to arrive at any definite\nconclusion. To pursue so fleeting a shadow through so many centuries,\nunder the ruins of so many crumbled empires, under the dust of departed\nnations, is a work of extreme difficulty, not to say impossibility.\n\nAt all events, Nyssia's resolution was implacably taken; this murder\nappeared to her in the light of the accomplishment of a sacred duty.\nAmong the barbarian nations every man who has surprised a woman in her\nnakedness is put to death. The queen believed herself exercising her\nright; only inasmuch as the injury had been secret, she was doing\nherself justice as best she could. The passive accomplice would become\nthe executioner of the other, and the punishment would thus spring from\nthe crime itself. The hand would chastise the head.\n\nThe olive-tinted monsters shut Gyges up in an obscure portion of the\npalace, whence it was impossible that he could escape, or that his cries\ncould be heard.\n\nHe passed the remainder of the day there in a state of cruel anxiety,\naccusing the hours of being lame, and again of walking too speedily. The\ncrime which he was about to commit, although he was only, in some sort,\nthe instrument of it, and though he was only yielding to an irresistible\ninfluence, presented itself to his mind in the most sombre colors. If\nthe blow should miss through one of those circumstances which none could\nforesee? If the people of Sardes should revolt and seek to avenge the\ndeath of the king? Such were the very sensible though useless\nreflections which Gyges made while waiting to be taken from his prison\nand led to the place whence he could only depart to strike his master.\n\nAt last the night unfolded her starry robe in the sky, and its shadow\nfell upon the city and the palace. A light footstep became audible,\na veiled woman entered the room and conducted him through the obscure\ncorridors and multiplied mazes of the royal edifice with as much\nconfidence as though she had been preceded by a slave bearing a lamp or\na torch.\n\nThe hand which held that of Gyges was cold, soft, and small;\nnevertheless those slender fingers clasped it with a bruising force, as\nthe fingers of some statue of brass animated by a prodigy would have\ndone. The rigidity of an inflexible will betrayed itself in that\never-equal pressure as of a vise--a pressure which no hesitation of\nhead or heart came to vary. Gyges, conquered, subjugated, crushed,\nyielded to that imperious traction, as though he were borne along by the\nmighty arm of Fate.\n\nAlas! it was not thus he had wished to touch for the first time that\nfair royal hand, which had presented the poniard to him, and was leading\nhim to murder, for it was Nyssia herself who had come for Gyges, to\nconceal him in the place of ambuscade.\n\nNo word was exchanged between the sinister couple on the way from the\nprison to the nuptial chamber.\n\nThe queen unfastened the thongs, raised the bar of the entrance, and\nplaced Gyges behind the folding door as Candaules had done the evening\nprevious. This repetition of the same acts, with so different a purpose,\nhad something of a lugubrious and fatal character. Vengeance, this time,\nhad placed her foot upon every track left by the insult. The\nchastisement and the crime alike followed the same path. Yesterday it\nwas the turn of Candaules, to-day it was that of Nyssia; and Gyges,\naccomplice in the injury, was also accomplice in the penalty. He had\nserved the king to dishonor the queen; he would serve the queen to kill\nthe king, equally exposed by the vices of the one and the virtues of the\nother.\n\nThe daughter of Megabazus seemed to feel a savage joy, a ferocious\npleasure, in employing only the same means chosen by the Lydian king,\nand turning to account for the murder those very precautions which had\nbeen adopted for voluptuous fantasy.\n\n\"You will again this evening see me take off these garments which are so\ndispleasing to Candaules. This spectacle should become wearisome to\nyou,\" said the queen in accents of bitter irony, as she stood on the\nthreshold of the chamber; \"you will end by finding me ugly.\" And a\nsardonic, forced laugh momentarily curled her pale mouth; then,\nregaining her impassible severity of mien, she continued: \"Do not\nimagine you will be able to steal away this time as you did before; you\nknow my sight is piercing. At the slightest movement on your part I\nshall awake Candaules; and you know that it will not be easy for you to\nexplain what you are doing in the king's apartments, behind a door, with\na poniard in your hand. Further, my Bactrian slaves, the copper-colored\nmutes who imprisoned you a short time ago, guard all the issues of the\npalace, with orders to massacre you should you attempt to go out.\nTherefore let no vain scruples of fidelity cause you to hesitate. Think\nthat I will make you King of Sardes, and that ... I will love you if you\navenge me. The blood of Candaules will be your purple, and his death\nwill make for you a place in that bed.\"\n\nThe slaves came according to their custom to change the fuel in the\ntripod, renew the oil in the lamps, spread tapestry and the skins of\nanimals upon the royal couch; and Nyssia hurried into the chamber as\nsoon as she heard their footsteps resounding in the distance.\n\nIn a short time Candaules arrived all joyous. He had purchased the bed\nof Ikmalius and proposed to substitute it for the bed wrought after the\nOriental fashion, which he declared had never been much to his taste. He\nseemed pleased to find that Nyssia had already retired to the nuptial\nchamber.\n\n\"The trade of embroidery, and spindles, and needles seems not to have\nthe same attraction for you to-day as usual. In fact, it is a monotonous\nlabor to perpetually pass one thread between other threads, and I wonder\nat the pleasure which you seem ordinarily to take in it. To tell the\ntruth, I am afraid that some fine day Pallas-Athena, on finding you so\nskilful, will break her shuttle over your head as she once did to poor\nArachne.\"\n\n\"My lord, I felt somewhat tired this evening, and so came down-stairs\nsooner than usual. Would you not like before going to sleep to drink a\ncup of black Samian wine mixed with the honey of Hymettus?\" And she\npoured from a golden urn, into a cup of the same metal, the\nsombre-colored beverage which she had mingled with the soporiferous\njuice of the nepenthe.\n\nCandaules took the cup by both handles and drained it to the last drop;\nbut the young Heracleid had a strong head, and sinking his elbow into\nthe cushions of his couch he watched Nyssia undressing without any sign\nthat the dust of sleep was commencing to gather upon his eyes.\n\nAs on the evening before, Nyssia unfastened her hair and permitted its\nrich blonde waves to ripple over her shoulders. From his hiding-place\nGyges fancied that he saw those locks slowly becoming suffused with\ntawny tints, illuminated with reflections of blood and flame; and their\nheavy curls seemed to lengthen with viperine undulations, like the hair\nof the Gorgons and Medusas.\n\nAll simple and graceful as that action was in itself, it took from the\nterrible events about to transpire a frightful and ominous character,\nwhich caused the hidden assassin to shudder with terror.\n\nNyssia then unfastened her bracelets, but, agitated as her hands had\nbeen by nervous straining, they ill served her will. She broke the\nstring of a bracelet of beads of amber inlaid with gold, which rolled\nover the floor with a loud noise, causing Candaules to reopen his\ngradually closing eyes.\n\nEach one of those beads fell upon the heart of Gyges as a drop of molten\nlead falls upon water.\n\nHaving unlaced her buskins, the queen threw her upper tunic over the\nback of an ivory chair. This drapery, thus arranged, produced upon Gyges\nthe effect of one of those sinister-folding winding sheets wherein the\ndead were wrapped ere being borne to the funeral pyre. Every object in\nthat room, which had the evening before seemed to him one scene of\nsmiling splendor, now appeared to him livid, dim, and menacing. The\nstatues of basalt rolled their eyes and smiled hideously. The lamp\nflickered weirdly, and its flame dishevelled itself in red and sanguine\nrays like the crest of a comet. Far back in the dimly lighted corners\nloomed the monstrous forms of the Lares and Lemures. The mantles hanging\nfrom their hooks seemed animated by a factitious life, and assumed a\nhuman aspect of vitality; and when Nyssia, stripped of her last garment,\napproached the bed, all white and naked as a shade, he thought that\nDeath herself had broken the diamond fetters wherewith Hercules of old\nenchained her at the gates of hell when he delivered Alcestes, and had\ncome in person to take possession of Candaules.\n\nOvercome by the power of the nepenthe-juice, the king at last slumbered.\nNyssia made a sign for Gyges to come forth from his retreat; and, laying\nher finger upon the breast of the victim, she directed upon her\naccomplice a look so humid, so lustrous, so weighty with languishment,\nso replete with intoxicating promise, that Gyges, maddened and\nfascinated, sprang from his hiding-place like the tiger from the summit\nof the rock where it has been crouching, traversed the chamber at a\nbound, and plunged the Bactrian poniard up to the very hilt in the\nheart of the descendant of Hercules. The chastity of Nyssia was avenged,\nand the dream of Gyges accomplished.\n\nThus ended the dynasty of the Heracleid\u00e6, after having endured for five\nhundred and five years, and commenced that of the Mermnades in the\nperson of Gyges, son of Dascylus. The Sardians, indignant at the death\nof Candaules, threatened revolt; but the oracle of Delphi having\ndeclared in favor of Gyges, who had sent thither a vast number of silver\nvases and six golden cratera of the value of thirty talents, the new\nking maintained his seat on the throne of Lydia, which he occupied for\nmany long years, lived happily, and never showed his wife to any one,\nknowing too well what it cost.\n\n\n\n\nADDENDA\n\n\n\"ONE OF CLEOPATRA'S NIGHTS\"\n\nA. There is no correct English plural of \"necropolis\"; the French word\n_n\u00e9cropole_ is more normal. As the Greek plural could not be used very\neuphoniously, and as I have tried throughout to render an exact English\nequivalent for each French word whenever comprehensible, I beg\nindulgence for the illegitimate plural \"necropoli,\" used to signify more\nthan one necropolis, as an equivalent for the French _n\u00e9cropoles_.\n\nB. In the opening scene of \"One of Cleopatra's Nights,\" the reader may\nbe surprised at the expression \"the _chuckling_ of the crocodiles.\" Our\nown southern alligators often make a little noise which could not be\nbetter described--a low, guttural sound, bearing a sinister resemblance\nto a human chuckle or subdued, sneering laugh. A Creole friend who has\nlived much in those regions of Southern Louisiana intersected by bayous\nand haunted by alligators, comprehended at once the whole force of the\nterm _rire \u00e9touffe_ as applied to the sounds made by the crocodile.\n\"_Je l'ai entendu souvent_\" he said, with a smile.\n\n\n\"CLARIMONDE\"\n\nThe idea of love after death has been introduced by Gautier into several\nbeautiful creations, sometimes Hoffmanesquely, sometimes with an\nexquisite sweetness peculiarly his own. Among his most touching poems\nthere is a fantastic--_Les T\u00e2ches Jaunes_--so remarkable that I cannot\nrefrain from offering a rude translation of it. Though transplanted even\nby a master-hand into the richest soil of another language, such\npoetical flora necessarily lose something of their strange color and\nmagical perfume. In this instance the translator, who is no poet, only\nstrives to convey the beautiful weirdness of the original idea:\n\n     With elbow buried in the downy pillow\n                 I've lain and read,\n     All through the night, a volume strangely written\n                 In tongues long dead.\n\n     For at my bedside lie no dainty slippers;\n                 And, save my own,\n     Under the paling lamp I hear no breathing:--\n                 I am alone!\n\n     But there are yellow bruises on my body\n                 And violet stains;\n     Though no white vampire came with lips blood-crimsoned\n                 To suck my veins!\n\n     Now I bethink me of a sweet weird story,\n                 That in the dark\n     Our dead loves thus with seal of chilly kisses\n                 Our bodies mark.\n\n     Gliding beneath the coverings of our couches\n                 They share our rest,\n     And with their dead lips sign their loving visit\n                 On arm and breast.\n\n     Darksome and cold the bed where now she slumbers,\n                 I loved in vain,\n     With sweet soft eyelids closed, to be reopened\n                 Never again.\n\n     Dead sweetheart, can it be that thou hast lifted\n                 With thy frail hand\n     Thy coffin-lid, to come to me again\n                 From Shadowland?\n\n     Thou who, one joyous night, didst, pale and speechless,\n                 Pass from us all,\n     Dropping thy silken mask and gift of flowers\n                 Amidst the ball?\n\n     Oh, fondest of my loves, from that far heaven\n                 Where thou must be,\n     Hast thou returned to pay the debt of kisses\n                 Thou owest me?\n\n\n\"ARRIA MARCELLA\"\n\nGautier doubtless obtained inspiration for this exquisite romance from\nan old Greek ghost story, first related by Phlegon, the freedman of\nHadrian. Versions of it were current in the twelfth and sixteenth\ncenturies; and Goethe reproduced it in his \"Bride of Corinth.\" We offer\na translation from the brief version of Michelet, who accuses Goethe of\nbad taste for having introduced the Slavic idea of vampirism into a\npurely Greek story.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA young Athenian goes to Corinth to visit the house of the man who has\npromised him his daughter in marriage. He has always remained a pagan,\nand does not know that the family into which he hopes to enter has been\nconverted to Christianity. He arrives at a very late hour. All are in\nbed except the mother, who prepares a hospitable repast for him, and\nthen leaves him to repose. He throws himself upon a couch, overwhelmed\nwith fatigue. Scarcely has he closed his eyes, when a figure enters the\nroom; it is a girl, all clad in white, with a white veil; there is a\nblack-and-gold fillet about her brows. She beholds him. Astonishment!\nLifting her white hand, she exclaims:\n\n\"Am I then such a stranger in the house? Alas! poor recluse that I am!\nBut I am ashamed to be here. I shall now depart. Repose in peace!\"\n\n\"Nay, remain, beautiful young girl! Behold! here are Ceres, Bacchus,\nand, with thee, Love! Fear not! be not so pale!\"\n\n\"Ah! touch me not, young man! I belong no more to joy. Through a vow\nmade by my sick mother, my youth and life are fettered forever. The\ngods have fled away. And now the only sacrifices are sacrifices of human\nvictims.\"\n\n\"What! is it thou! thou, my beloved affianced, betrothed to me from\nchildhood! The oath of our fathers bound us together forever under the\nbenediction of heaven! Oh, virgin, be mine!\"\n\n\"Nay, friend, nay!--not I. Thou shalt have my young sister. If I sigh in\nmy chill prison, thou mayst, at least, while in her arms, think of me,\nof me who pines and thinks only of thee, and whom the earth must soon\ncover again.\"\n\n\"Never! I swear it by this flame, it is the torch of Hymen. Thou shalt\ncome with me to my father's house. Remain, my well-beloved!\"\n\nFor marriage-gift he offers her a cup of gold. She gives him her chain;\nbut prefers a lock of his hair to the cup.\n\nIt is the ghostly hour. She sips with her pale lips the dark wine that\nis the color of blood. Eagerly he drinks after her. He invokes Love.\nShe, though her poor heart was dying for it, nevertheless resists him.\nBut he, in despair, casts himself upon the bed and weeps. Then she,\nflinging herself down beside him, murmurs:\n\n\"Ah! how much hurt thy pain causes me! Yet shouldst thou touch me--what\nhorror! White as snow, cold as ice, alas! is thy betrothed!\"\n\n\"I shall warm thee, love! come to me! even though thou hadst but this\nmoment left the tomb.\" Sighs and kisses are exchanged.... Love binds\nand fetters them. Tears mingle with happiness. Thirstily she drinks the\nfire of his lips; her long-congealed blood takes flame with amorous\nmadness, yet no heart beats in her breast.\n\nBut the mother was there; listening. Sweet vows; cries of plaint and\npleasure. \"Hush,\" says the bride; \"I hear the cock crow! Farewell, till\nto-morrow, after nightfall.\" Then adieu, and the sound of kisses\nsmothering kisses.\n\nIndignant, the mother enters. What does she behold! Her daughter! He\nseeks to hide her--to veil her! But she disengages herself; and waxing\ntaller, towers from the couch to the roof.\n\n\"O, mother, mother! dost thou then envy me my sweet night? dost thou\nseek to drive me from this warm place? Was it not enough to have wrapped\nme in the shroud, and borne me so early to the tomb! But there was a\npower that lifted the stone! Vainly did thy priests hum above my grave.\nWhat avail salt and water where youth burns? The earth may not chill\nlove.... Thou didst promise me to this youth.... I come to claim my\nright.\n\n\"Alack! friend, thou must die. Here thou must pine and wither away. I\npossess thy hair; to-morrow it shall be white.... Mother, a last prayer!\nOpen my black dungeon; erect a funeral pyre; and let the sweetheart\nobtain the repose that only flames can give. Let the sparks gush out,\nlet the ashes redden! We return to our ancient gods.\"--_La Sorci\u00e8re_,\npages 32-34; edition of 1863.\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nContents\n\n   TO THE READER\n   ONE OF CLEOPATRA'S NIGHTS\n      CHAPTER I\n      CHAPTER II\n      CHAPTER III\n      CHAPTER IV\n      CHAPTER V\n      CHAPTER VI\n   CLARIMONDE\n   ARRIA MARCELLA\n   THE MUMMY'S FOOT\n   OMPHALE: A ROCOCO STORY\n   KING CANDAULES\n      CHAPTER I\n      CHAPTER II\n      CHAPTER III\n      CHAPTER IV\n      CHAPTER V\n   ADDENDA","title":"One of Cleopatra's Nights and Other Fantastic Romances","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":68511}