Part 11 (2/2)
She threw herself into Eros' arms, who asked her where she had been. And without answering him, she began to cry and hid her face in his breast.
”What is it, little Psyche?” asked Eros. ”Are you in trouble? Amongst the roses the boys cry, and by the brook the queen cries. Is there then sadness in my kingdom? Does not Psyche feel happy?”
She wept and shrugged her shoulders, as if to say that she did not know. And she hid her face in his breast.
”Tell me, Psyche, what is the matter?”
She would have liked to tell him, but she could not; a stronger power kept her back.
”Does not Psyche feel happy? Does she long for the Chimera?”
She laid her little hand upon his lips.
”Don't speak about him. I am not worthy of him. I am not worthy of you, Eros.”
He kissed her very gently.
”What does my Psyche think about? May I not leave her any more, alone by the brook?”
”No, no!” said she hastily, and drew his arms round her.... ”No,”
she continued quickly. ”Don't leave me alone any more. Always stay by me. Protect me from myself, O Eros...!”
”Is little Psyche ill?”
She nodded in the affirmative, and laid her burning head upon his breast; she nestled against him and shut her feverish eyes.
He stayed by her, and all around was still, and the cupids appeared fluttering in the air. That night she slept in Eros' arms. She awoke for a moment out of her sleep; far away in the distance through the crystal of the palace she heard the sound of pipes. She raised her head and listened. But she would not hear any more, and hid herself in Eros' arms and fell asleep on his heart.
The next day he stayed by her, and they wandered to the brook. Sadness hung over the garden, the flowers drooped. In the afternoon Psyche became uneasy; she heard the pipe, and in the distance caught a glimpse of vague forms dancing.
”Do you see nothing?” she asked Eros.
”No....”
”Do you hear nothing?” she said again.
”No,” he answered. ”Poor Psyche is ill. And the flowers are ill too, because she is. Oh, let Eros cure you...!”
The following night, in the arms of her husband, she heard the pipe. It played saucy, short, lively tunes. ”Come, come, now dance with us; we are drinking the grapes. Come ... come...!”
She could resist no longer. Trembling, she loosed herself from her husband's arms, who was asleep. She got up, stole out of the palace, fled through the garden to the alluring voice.
The flowers in the brook seemed to entreat her: ”Oh, go not away! Oh, go not away!” The nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl.
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