Kotikokura beat a monotonous tune upon a kettle, like the white-haired man of his native tribe.

“You, too, Kotikokura? You, too, yearn for your youth? Must man revert forever to his pristine lusts? Is there nothing in life, except the ghost of the past?”

Kotikokura continued to beat upon the kettle.

“Stop! We have no time to lose. Go, hire the finest animal. This very evening we shall be the guests of Princess Salome!”

The eunuch, watching the gate, was a colossal mass of flesh, motionless as a stone. His semicircular sword glittered like an evil eye. I placed a purse into his hand. “Tell your mistress, Princess Salome, that His Highness Prince Cartaphilus begs for the favor of an audience with her.” He took the money, but did not budge. I tried to put him to sleep, but his small black eyes opened and closed, unperturbed. I dipped my fingers into the chemical which accompanied me on all my journeys. My hands dazzled like stars, but he was unmoved.

“Inform your mistress that Prince Cartaphilus is at her gate,” I repeated angrily.

He did not stir.

“You evidently do not know who Prince Cartaphilus is. Here—” I waved before his eyes the letter with the seal of the Imperial Dragon. He looked at the curious characters on the parchment, which of course he could not decipher.

I whispered, “A message from the Shah.” He dropped upon his hands, like a lifeless thing. “Rise,” I commanded, “and announce my arrival!”

The palace was surrounded by a garden, in the center of which a tall fountain rose and fell silently, like a stream of light. A flock of peacocks first screeched at our approach, then spread slowly like magnificent fans their luxurious tails. Several small monkeys climbed rapidly the giant palm trees, and crouching upon the tips of the branches, glared at Kotikokura, whose uncovered teeth shone like whetted knives.

Salome was reclining upon a low sofa, covered with a silk canopy, embroidered with one enormous eagle, whose wings of red gold seemed to flap in the glitter. I kissed her hand. She bade me sit apposite her.

“I am Cartaphilus, gracious Princess.”

“Do not speak in Hebrew, I pray you, Cartaphilus. I hate words that gurgle in the throat. Speak in Greek. Greek undulates like a river, which is stirred by the breezes.”

She understood Hebrew,—that was what I wished to know, to ascertain if she was indeed Salome. “It is natural to dislike the language of the vanquished, Princess, and Greek is certainly more beautiful.”

She patted gently the spotted back of a leopard cub asleep at her side. We were silent. Was she really the Princess who once upon a time praised the subtle and impersonal love of flowers, but accepted the personal embrace of a swarthy Nubian? Was she the reincarnation of the most delightful and most detestable Princess, or a composite of the women I had known? She partook of each; but was different nevertheless. Was she Salome, Princess of Judea, or the Perfect Woman? Was she all things, being still herself?

She guessed my thoughts. “The body is a house wherein dwells a multitude of beings,” she remarked.

I did not know how to begin the conversation, and Salome refused to help me.

“I have traversed the land of Cathay to meet the incomparable Princess.”

She nodded.

“Have you also visited that marvelous land, whose walls encircle so much wisdom and beauty?”

“It may be. I have traveled much.”

“The poets of the Celestial Empire sing of Princess Salome rapturously. She is the magnificent goddess, appearing every hundred years in incomparable glory.”

Salome smiled. “Poets.”

“Poets, Princess, see beyond the walls that encircle others—”

“They deal in symbols.”

“Are not all things symbols?”

We remained silent again for some time. The cub opened its eyes, yawned, and licked the hand of his mistress.

“What does the Shah desire?”

“The Shah?”

“Yes. Did you not show my slave a letter from the Shah?”

I smiled. “It was the only way I could gain admittance.”

She looked at me angrily.

“I beg your forgiveness, Madam, but is not any strategem lawful, in love and war?”

“So the proverb goes, but I dislike proverbs. It is a facile manner of thinking.”

“Quite true, Princess. The letter, however, is from a monarch greater than the Shah,—it is a missive from the Son of Heaven. Do you care to read it?”

She shook her head slowly, and patted the young leopard. I wondered whether she refused to see it because she did not know Chinese.

“The Chinese language,” she said, answering my thought, “is not as difficult as people believe. With a little imagination, and the ability to draw, one can master it within five or ten years.”

“Princess Salome must be well versed in it, then, I am certain.” She did not answer. I was making no impression. My words seemed unconvincing and futile.

‘It is she, Cartaphilus!’ I thought, ‘and once again, she treats you as a Princess treats a commoner.’ My hand itched, as it had itched centuries before, to penetrate the armor of her insolence if not with my love, at least with my sword.

The cub opened wide his mouth. Salome placed the tips of her fingers between his jaws.

“Even the wild beasts adore your beauty.”

She lifted slightly her left brow, as Poppaea had been in the habit of doing, when disdainful.

“In my travels, O Princess, I have mastered the secret laws of love.”

She smiled.

“I have been as a bee that gathers the perfume from a thousand flowers that its honey may taste the sweeter.”

She clapped her hands. A young slave appeared. She whispered something into his ear.

“Does Cartaphilus enjoy music and dancing?”

“Of course, Princess.” I was piqued at the idea of being interrupted.

What I had taken for marble walls, dissolved and vanished, and the room in which we were became as large as a street. The ceiling was studded with enormous diamonds, which shed a light, soothing and cool like the sun at dawn, when the lower part of its circumference still touches the thin blue line of the mountains.

In the farther corner of the room, several girls were playing Oriental melodies, which were the passionate pulsation of a lover’s blood. Suddenly, strident and insistent, the music changed into a raging sea beating against metal shores.

Naked giants, red-bearded and black, dashed into the room. Their dance mimicked love’s final siege. Was it an amorous embrace? Was it wrestling? Their limbs united, separated and clenched again, until one half lay panting, outstretched under the colossal weight of their conquerors.

The Princess watched the play of their enormous sinews with half-closed eyes.

The bearded giants were followed by clean-shaven men,—black, white and yellow, dancing native dances to which they added movements reminding me of the convulsive spasms with which the body responded to the caresses devised by Flower-of-the-Evening.

These were followed by youths with fleshy hips, whose hair fell over their shoulders in long silken ringlets. Their dancing was almost motionless, like half-congealed waters or wary snakes that creep among the grasses more silently than summer breezes.

The Princess threw a bracelet to one of the dancers. He walked over to her with tiny, mincing steps, balancing his hips like a young Hindu girl, who carries upon her head a crystal vase filled with perfume. Salome caressed him, and bade him sit at her feet. His head against her knee, he remained motionless in an attitude of adoration.

The music played softly a Lesbian air, stirring epicene dreams and shadowy atavistic desires. Girls entered, some tall, slim, with wiry muscles; others, with full-blossomed breasts, wearing like a badge of love, the triangle of Astarte. They formed a semicircle, in the center of which a tall woman, her body half hidden by many veils of various hues, began to dance, first slowly like the young men; but gradually quickening her movements until she seemed like a wind of many colors, turning in a mad spiral.