Demetrios gazed at her without understanding.

"Yes, all that is a pure matter of indifference to you, is it not?"

continued Chrysis. "You did not love her. It is I that you love. You have not even listened to what I have just told you. I am sure you could not repeat a single word. You are absorbed in wondering how my eyelids are made up, speculating on the sweetness of my mouth, on the softness of my hair. Ah! how many others know all this! All who have desired me have had their pleasure upon me: men, young men, old men, children, women, young girls. I have refused n.o.body, do you understand? For seven years, Demetrios, I have only slept alone three nights. Count how many lovers that makes. Two thousand five hundred and more. I do not include those that came in the daytime. Last year I danced naked before twenty thousand persons, and I know that you were not one of them. Do you think that I hide myself? Ah! for what, pray? All the women have seen me in the bath. All the men have seen me in bed. You alone, you shall never see me. I refuse you. I refuse you. You shall never know anything of what I am, of what I feel, of my beauty, of my love! You are an abominable man, fatuous, cruel, insensible, cowardly! I don't know why one of us has not had enough hatred to kill you both in one another's arms, first you, and afterwards the queen."

Demetrios quietly took her by the two arms, and, without answering a word, bent her backwards with violence.

She had a moment's anguish; but suddenly she stiffened her knees, stiffened her elbows, backed a little, and said in a low voice:

"Ah! I am not afraid of that, Demetrios! you shall never take me by force, were I as feeble as an amorous virgin and you as strong as a son of Atlas. You desire not only the satisfaction of your own senses, but chiefly of mine. Moreover, you want to see me from head to foot, because you believe that I am beautiful, and I am beautiful indeed. Now the moon gives less light than my twelve waxen torches. It is almost dark here.

And then it is not customary to undress upon the quay. I could not dress myself again without the help of my slave. Let me free, you hurt my arms."

They were silent for a few minutes; then Demetrios answered:

"We must have done with this, Chrysis. You know well that I shall not force you. But let me follow you. However proud you are, you would pay dearly for the glory of refusing Demetrios."

Chrysis still kept silence. He continued more gently:

"What are you afraid of?"

"You are accustomed to the love of others. Do you know what ought to be given to a courtesan who does not love?"

He became impatient.

"I do not ask you to love me. I am tired of being loved. I do not want to be loved. I ask you to abandon yourself. For that, I will give you all the gold in the world. I have it in Egypt."

"I have it in my hair. I am tired of gold. I don't want gold. I want but three things. Will you give them to me?"

Demetrios felt that she was going to ask for the impossible. He looked at her anxiously. But she began to smile, and said in slow tones:

"I want a silver mirror to gaze at my eyes within my eyes."

"You shall have it. What else do you want? Quickly."

"I want a carved ivory comb to plunge into my hair like a net into water that sparkles in the sun."

"And then?"

"You will give me my comb?"

"Yes, yes. Go on."

"I want a pearl necklace to hang on my breast, when I dance you the nuptial dances of my country in my chamber."

He raised his eyebrows;

"Is that all?"

"You will give me my necklace?"

"Any you please."

Her voice became very tender.

"Any I please? Ah! that is exactly what I wanted to ask you. Will you let me choose my presents?"

"Of course."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

"What oath will you swear?"

"Dictate it to me."

"By the Aphrodite you carved."

"I swear by the Aphrodite. But why these precautions?"

"Ah! . . . I was uneasy; but now I am rea.s.sured".

She raised her head.

"I have chosen my presents."

Demetrios suddenly became anxious and asked:

"Already?"

"Yes. Do you think I shall accept any sort of silver mirror, bought of a merchant of Smyrna, or some stray courtesan. I want the mirror of my friend Bacchis, who stole a lover from me last week and jeered at me spitefully in a little orgie she had with Tryphera, Mousarion, and some young fools who repeated everything to me. It is a mirror she prizes greatly because it belonged to Ithodopis, who was fellow-slave with aesop and was redeemed by Sappho's brother. You know that she is a very celebrated courtesan. Her mirror is magnificent. It is said that Sappho used it, and it is for this reason that Bacchis lays store on it. She has nothing more precious in the world; but I know where you will find it. She told me one night, when she was intoxicated. It is under the third stone of the altar. She puts it there every evening when she leaves her house at sunset. Go to-morrow to her house at that hour and fear nothing: she takes her slaves with her."

"This is pure madness," cried Demetrios. "Do you expect me to steal?"

"Do you not love me? I thought that you loved me. And then, have you not sworn? I thought you had sworn. If I am mistaken, let us say no more about it."

He understood that she was ruining him, but he yielded without a struggle, almost willingly.

"I will do what you say," he answered.

"Oh! I know well that you will. But you hesitate at first. I understand that. It is not an ordinary present. I would not ask it of a philosopher. I ask you for it. I know well that you will give it me."

She toyed a moment with the peac.o.c.k feathers of her round fan, and suddenly:

"Ah! . . . Neither do I wish for a common ivory comb bought at a tradesman's in the town. You told me I might choose, did you not? Well, I want . . . I want the carved ivory comb in the hair of the wife of the high priest. It is much more valuable than the mirror of Rhodopis. It came from a queen of Egypt who lived a long time ago, and whose name is so difficult that I cannot p.r.o.nounce it. Consequently the ivory is very old, and as yellow as if it were gilded. It has a carved figure of a young girl walking in a lotus-marsh. The lotus is higher than she is, and she is stepping on tiptoe in order not to get wet . . . It is really a beautiful comb. I am glad you are going to give it to me. I have also some little grievances against its present possessor. I had offered a blue veil to Aphrodite last month; I saw it on this woman's head next day. It was a little hasty, and I bore her a grudge for it. Her comb will avenge me for my veil."