Herma looked at me startled. She pressed my hand in a curious way which I assumed to be the secret grip of a strange lodge.

“Salome, am I once more in Persia? Are you deluding me again? Are these phantoms cast against mirrors?…”

“Cartaphilus is a child always and always bewildered,” Salome answered in Greek.

“You speak the language of the gods,” Herma said wearily, her eyes closed. Her lips assumed the smile of La Joconda.

The human serpent twisted about the violet-haired Baroness, forming with her a bizarre and lascivious pattern.

The shoe adorant convulsed at the feet of Salome.

“Life is a wind– —” the voice drawled out in back of us.

“Greater love has no man,” Narcissus whispered, making eyes at himself. Narcissa was still lost in the contemplation of her lilied loveliness.

Mademoiselle Fifi leaned languorously against the Chief of Police. The Chief of Police, in the scarlet dress embroidered with silk, with cushions to supply the breasts which nature denied him, ogled a lackey passing with a tray of cordials.

My eyes became dim. The lights danced among the dancers who seemed motionless. The music retreated—retreated—like the band of an army, passing by a window and continuing its march.

I felt warm flesh pressing against mine. Herma lay between Salome and me. “Salome,” I whispered, my words coming into my mouth from an immense distance, “Salome!”

“Cartaphilus!”

“Must always a dream or another human form, however lovely, interfere between Salome and Cartaphilus?”

“When Salome conquers the moon—Cartaphilus shall conquer Salome.”

Something beat against my ear like a bass drum—bang, bang, bang! I could not open my eyes. Bang-bang-bang! I must see—I must! Bang-bang-bang! I must! Bang, bang! I opened my eyes wide, wide, for fear they would close again.

It was morning. The sun pierced vainly through the curtained windows. All about me, men and women snored and groaned or lay still, like dead. Herma slept, her face bloated, her lips frozen into an ironic grin. Salome was gone!

Bang, bang, bang! Some one was knocking furiously at the door. No one moved. The servants had disappeared. I rose, tottered to the door, and opened it.

Kotikokura, wild-eyed, his sword drawn, was ready to strike.

“Kotikokura!” I exclaimed.

“Ca-ta-pha!” His sword dropped. “Ca-ta-pha!” He embraced me.

“This is the enchanted palace of Persia, Kotikokura,” I grumbled.

He took me in his arms like a child and placed me in a carriage. I fell asleep. When I awoke again, Kotikokura administered cognac and iced oranges.

“What has happened, Kotikokura? Where have I been?”

He explained that he suddenly became aware that I had disappeared from the salon of the Marquise. Nobody had seen me go. He shouted: Where is Ca-ta-pha, god Ca-ta-pha? Everybody laughed. He rushed out, upsetting several men and women. He looked for me at the hotel and at the cafe’s,—everywhere indeed where I was accustomed to go. He feared foul play. He had heard of spies and kidnappers. He rushed about the streets, calling out: “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!” He stopped carriages, peered into windows, and finally returned to the hotel. I had disappeared! Meanwhile, day was breaking. He was desperate and commenced to search once more.

Finally, a lady, heavily veiled, stopped him, and pointed out the house where I was.

“It was Salome!” I exclaimed.

His jaw dropped.

“Dear old Kotikokura, best of friends and companions! What would I do without you?”

Kotikokura began to dance.

A lackey brought in a letter.

“From Salome, Kotikokura”

“Mon cher Lucifer,

Kotikokura, the most faithful of creatures”—Do you hear that Kotikokura?

Kotikokura grinned, his eyes luminous like a cat’s. “…must have taken care of you. Do you remember anything as grotesque as last night? Mon ancien, mon ami! Do not remain very long in Paris. The storm is rising. It is not safe.

“Before leaving, however, see Dr. Benjamin Franklin, inventor, publicist, statesman, and possessor of twenty-seven mistresses and several illegitimate children, which is not a mean record for a representative of a new country.

“Help him carry on the revolution. It may be that the New World will be a more habitable place than the old one. I doubt it. But let us try. Besides, you will lose nothing. Your banking system is splendidly organized. Rothschild is very clever. You have chosen well.

“Poor Herma! When she wakes up, she will find neither you nor me. A god-goddess for one night. But what a god—what a goddess, Cartaphilus!

“I am leaving for the Pampas, where I hope to create a more perfect being than Herma. I shall communicate with you as soon as I wish you to visit me. Meanwhile, take care of yourself and of your charming monster.

“Lilith, Regina.”

I remained pensive. I could not remember the embraces of Herma. Had I been enchanted by the ludicrous circus? Had I foregone godly pleasure? I tried to recollect. I remembered I protested against her—I called out: “This is not what I yearn for! You are neither Mary nor John! Go away!” I ran. Herma pursued me. “Help! Help! Monsieur le Chef de Police!” Suddenly, I noticed a tall pole with a yellow top. I climbed quickly. Herma fell and wept. I laughed.

“Kotikokura, oh that we may never find what we seek!”

He helped me descend from the bed.

“I am sick, Kotikokura.”

“Sick of the wine?”

“Sick of the earth…”

“No, no!”

“Pan—you love the earth too much.”

He gave me another cool drink into which he mixed cognac and orange juice.

“Bacchus!”

He began to dance.

I laughed heartily.

SALOME was standing at the tall bronze gate, waving her hand. In the reflection of the setting sun, she dazzled like a luminous body—a lake on fire or a full moon surrounded by a magnificent aureole. She was the snowy peak of a mountain, surmounted by a golden crown, a cataract of white roses, the foam of a gigantic wave congealed, a dream carved in stone.

“Gallop faster, Kotikokura, or she will disappear. She is Fata Morgana.”

We whipped and urged our horses and in our haste, we drove past her. Salome laughed, and ran a little to meet us. She embraced me, pressing me tightly to her breast.

Kotikokura stood a little aside.

“Come here, you little monster!” Salome ordered.

He approached her like a boy who is guilty of a misdemeanor. She embraced him.

“You are old enough, Kotikokura, to behave better.”

Kotikokura kissed her hand.

She took our arms and led us back to the gate of her inaccessible dominion. Meanwhile, a host of men and women whose faces were hidden by their enormous sombreros, ran from all sides, took care of our horses, and rushed to meet the long caravan which was approaching slowly.

“What is that, Cartaphilus?” Salome asked.

“My belongings and my gifts to the incomparable queen.”

She looked at me a little perplexed.

“I have come to stay, Salome. The Wandering Jew must have a spot to call his own. This is the twentieth century. He has exhausted all countries. The Zeppelin and the airplane make a jest of distance. I shall stay here for a century, perhaps forever…”

“Don’t be too sanguine,” she said, pressing my arm.

“Even in the most romantic novels or among the Anglo-Saxons, no hero waits more than two thousand years for his wedding night.”

“Incorrigible as ever and as ever, arrogant.”