In all this mourning garb, Demetrios sees but the hair, like a golden vase on an ebony column. He recognises Chrysis.

The recollection of the mirror and of the necklace and of the comb recurs to him vaguely; but he does not believe in it, and in this singular vision reality alone seems to him a dream . . .

"Come," says Chrysis. "Follow me."

He follows her. She slowly mounts a staircase strewn with white skins.

Her arm rests upon the rail. Her naked heels float in and out from under her robe.

The house has but one storey. Chrysis halts at the topmost step.

"There are four chambers," she says.

"When you have seen them, you will never leave them. Will you follow me?

Have you confidence?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: A monstrous iris-flower reaches to the level of her lips.]

But he will follow her everywhere. She opens the first door and closes it behind him.

This room is long and narrow. It is lighted by a single window, through which is seen enframed the great expanse of sea. On the right and left are two small tables and on them a dozen book-rolls.

"Here are the books you love," says Chrysis. "There are no others."

Demetrios opens them: they are _The Oineus of Chaeremon_, _The Return of Alexis_, _The Mirror of Lais of Aristippos_, _The Enchantress_, _The Cyclops_, the _Bucolics of Theocritos_, _dipus at Colonos_, the _Odes of Sappho_, and several other little works. Upon a pile of cushions, in the midst of this ideal library, there is a naked girl who utters no word.

"Now," murmurs Chrysis, drawing from a long golden coder a ma.n.u.script consisting of a single leaf, "here is the page of antique poesy that you never read alone without weeping."

The young man reads at a venture:

[Greek: Hoi men ar' ethreneon, epi de stenachonto gynaikes.

Tesin d'Andromache leukolenos erche gooio, Hektoros androphonoio kare meta chersin echousa; Aner, ap' aionos neos oleo, kadde me cheren Leipeis en megaroisi; pais d'eti nepios autos, Hon tekomen sy t'ego te dysammoroi. . .]

He stops, casting upon Chrysis a look of surprise and tenderness.

"You?" he says. "You show me this?"

"Ah! you have not seen everything. Follow me. Follow me quickly."

They open another door.

The second chamber is square. It is lighted by a single window, through which is seen enframed all nature. In the midst, stands a wooden trestle bearing a lump of red clay, and in a corner, a naked girl lies upon a curved chair, and utters no word.

"Here you will model Andromeda and Zagreus and the Horses of the Sun. As you will create them for yourself alone, you will break them in pieces before your death."

"It is the House of Felicity," says Demetrios in a low voice.

And he lets his forehead sink into his hands. But Chrysis opens another door.

The third chamber is vast and round. It is lighted by a single window, through which is seen enframed the great expanse of blue sky. Its walls consist of gratings of bronze bars so disposed as to form lozenge-shaped interstices. Through them glides a music of flutes and pipes played to a doleful measure by invisible musicians. And against the far wall, upon a throne of green marble, sits a naked girl who utters no word.

"Come! Come!" repeats Chrysis.

They open another door.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The fourth chamber is low, sombre, hermetically closed, and triangular.

thick carpets and rugs array it so luxuriously from floor to roof that nudity is not astonished in it. Lovers can easily imagine that they have east off their garments upon the walls in all directions. When the door is closed again, it is impossible to guess where it was. There is no window. It is a narrow world, outside the world. A few wisps of black hair hanging to the cushions shed tear-drops of perfumes. And this chamber is lighted by seven little myrrhine panes which colour diversely the incomprehensible light of seven subterranean lamps.

"See," explains the woman in an affectionate and tranquil tone, "there are three different beds in the three corners of _our_ chamber."

Demetrios does not answer. And he asks within himself:

"Is it really a last term? Is it truly a goal of human existence? Have I then pa.s.sed through the other three chambers only to stop in this one?

And shall I, shall I ever be able to leave it if I lie in it a whole night in the att.i.tude of love which is the prostration of the tomb."

But Chrysis speaks.

"Well-Beloved, you asked for me; I am come, look at me well . . ."

She raises her two arms together, lays her hands upon her hair, and, with her elbows projecting in front of her, smiles.

"Well-Beloved, I am yours . . . Oh! not immediately . . . I promised you to sing, I will sing first . . ."

And he thinks of her no more, and lays him down at her feet. She has little black sandals. Four threads of blue pearls pa.s.s between the dainty toes, on the nails of which has been painted a carmine lunar crescent.

With her head reposing on her shoulder, she taps on the palm of her left hand with her right, and undulates her hips almost imperceptibly.

"By night, on my bed, I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not . . .

I charge ye, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, If ye find my beloved, Tell him That I am sick of love."

"Ah! it is the Song of Songs, Demetrios.

It is the nuptial canticle of the women of my country."

"I sleep, but my heart waketh: It is the voice of my beloved . . .

That knocketh at my door, The voice of my beloved!

He cometh, Leaping upon the mountains Like a roe Or a young hart."

"My beloved speaks, and says unto me: Open unto me, my sister, my fair one: My head is filled with dew, And my locks with the drops of the night.

Rise up, my love, my fair one, And come away.

For lo, the winter is past, The rain is over and gone, The flowers appear on the earth.

The time of the singing of birds is come, The voice of the turtle-dove is heard in the land.

Rise up, my love, my fair one, And come away."