"Naukrates has invited Philodemos with his mistress, Faustina, whom he has brought back from Italy. He has also invited Phrasilas and Timon, and your friend Seso of Cuidos."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Aretias opened the door for her]

Seso entered at this precise moment.

"Chrysis!"

"My darling!"

The two women embraced, and enlarged with many an exclamation upon the happy chance which had brought them together.

"I was afraid of being late," said Seso. "That poor Archytas has kept me. . ."

"What, Archytas again?"

"It is always the same thing. Whenever I go out to dine, he imagines that my body is to be at everybody's disposal in turn. Then he insists on having his revenge beforehand, and that takes such a time! Ah! my dear, if he knew me better! I am far from wanting to deceive my lovers.

I have quite enough of them as it is."

"And the baby that is coming? It does not show yet, however."

"I hope not indeed. It is the third month. It is growing, the little wretch. But it does not bother me yet. In six weeks I shall begin to dance. I hope that will prove very unpleasant to it, and that it will disappear quickly."

"You are right," said Chrysis. "Don't let your shape get disfigured. I saw Philemation yesterday, our former little friend, who lived three years at Boubaste with a grain merchant. Do you know the first thing she said to me? 'Ah! if you saw my b.r.e.a.s.t.s!' and she had tears in her eyes.

I told her she was still pretty, but she repeated: 'If you saw my b.r.e.a.s.t.s! ah! ah! if you saw my b.r.e.a.s.t.s!' weeping like a Byblis. Then I saw that she was almost anxious to show them, and I asked to see them.

My dear, two empty bags! And you know what beauties she had. They were so white that the points were invisible. Don't spoil yours, my Seso.

Leave them fresh and firm as they are. A courtesan's two b.r.e.a.s.t.s are worth more than her necklace."

During this conversation, the two women were making their toilette.

Finally they entered the banqueting-room together, where Bacchis was standing waiting, with her waist encircled by breast-bands and her neck loaded with rows of gold necklaces reaching up to the chin.

"Ah, my pretty dears, what a good idea on the part of Naukrates to invite you both together this evening!"

"We congratulate ourselves on its being to your house that we are invited," answered Chrysis without appearing to understand the innuendo.

And, in order to say something venomous immediately, she added:

"How is Doryclos?"

Doryclos was a young and extremely rich lover who had just deserted Bacchis to marry a Sicilian woman.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Ah, my pretty dears, what a good idea . . ."]

"I . . . I have turned him away," said Bacchis, brazenly.

"Is it possible?"

"Yes; they say he is going to marry out of spite. But I expect him the day after his marriage. He is madly in love with me."

While asking: "How is Doryclos?" Chrysis had thought: "Where is your mirror?" But Bacchis did not look one in the face, and the only expression to be read in her eyes was a vague embarra.s.sment devoid of meaning. Besides, there was time for Chrysis to elucidate this question, and, in spite of her impatience, she knew how to wait with resignation for a more favourable opportunity.

She was about to continue the conversation, when she was prevented by the arrival of Philodemos, Faustina, and Naukrates, which involved Bacchis in fresh interchanges of politeness. They fell into ecstasies over the poet's embroidered garment and the diaphanous robe of his mistress. This young girl, being unfamiliar with Alexandrian usage, had thought to h.e.l.lenize herself in this manner, not knowing that a dress of the kind was inadmissible at a festival where hired dancing-women, similarly unclothed, were to appear.

Bacchis affected not to notice this error, and in a few amiable phrases complimented Faustina on her heavy blue hair swimming in brilliant perfumes. She wore her hair raised high above the neck in order to avoid staining her light silken stuffs with myrrh.

They were about to sit down to table when the seventh guest arrived; it was Timon, a young man whose want of principle was a natural gift, but who had discovered in the teaching of the philosophers of his time some superior reasons for self-satisfaction.

"I have brought someone with me," he said laughing.

"Whom?" asked Bacchis.

"A certain Demo, a girl from Mendes."

"Demo! What can you be thinking of, my dear fellow? She is a street girl. She can be had for a fig."

"Good, good. We won't insist on it." said the young man. "I have just made her acquaintance at the corner of the Canopic way. She asked me to give her a dinner, and I brought her to you. If you don't want her. . ."

"Timon is really extraordinary," declared Bacchis.

She called a slave:

"Heliope, go and tell your sister that she will find a woman at the door and that she is to drive her away with a stick. Off you go!"

She turned and looked round:

"Has not Phrasilas come yet?"

II.

THE DINNER

At these words, a sickly little man, with a grey forehead, grey eyes, and a small, grey beard, advanced with little steps and said smiling:

"I was there."

Phrasilas was a polygraph of repute of whom it would have been difficult to say exactly whether he was a philosopher, a graminarian, a historian, or a mythologist. He undertook the most weighty studies with timid ardour and ephemeral curiosity. Write a treatise he dare not. Construct a drama he could not. His style had something hypocritical, finniking, and vain. For thinkers he was a poet; for poets he was a sage: for society he was a great man.

"Come! to table!" said Bacchis. And she lay, down with her lover upon the bed which stood at the head of the banqueting board. On her right, reclined Philodemos and Faustina with Phrasilas. On Naukrates's left, Seso, then Chrysis and young Timon. Each one of the guests reclined in a diagonal position, leaning upon silken cushions and wearing wreaths of flowers upon their heads. A slave-girl brought the garlands of red roses and blue lotus-flowers, then the banquet began.

Timon felt that his freak had chilled the women. He therefore did not speak to them at first, but, addressing Philodemos, said gravely:

"They say you are the devoted friend of Cicero. What do you think of him, Philodemos? Is he an enlightened philosopher or a mere compiler, without discernment and without taste? for I have heard both opinions put forward."

"It is precisely because I am his friend that I cannot answer your question," said Philodemos. "I know him too well; consequently I know him ill. Ask Phrasilas, who, having read him but little, will judge him without error."