Part 31 (2/2)

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 cus.h.i.+ons 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.”

<script>