“Her nurse?” said Philotis. “She wants to steal away Timon.” “The whip! She deserves the whip!” said Callistion, who put one arm round Myrto’s waist, lifting her off the ground and raising her little blue tunic, But Seso interposed: “You are mad,” she cried. “Myrto has never known a man. If she calls Timon, it is not to sleep with him. Let her alone, and let us have done with it!” “Come,” said Timon, “what do you want with me? Come here. Whisper in my ear. Is it really serious?” “The body of Chrysis is there, in the street,” said the young girl tremblingly. “We are carrying into the cemetary, my little friend and I, but it is heavy, and we ask you if you will help us. It will not take long. Immediately afterwards you can rejoin your women . . .” Timon’s look reassured her. “Poor girls! To think that I laughed! You are better than we are . . . Certainly I will help you. Go and join your friend and wait for me, I am coming.” Turning to the four women . . . “Go to my house,” he said, “by the street of the Potters. I shall be there in a short time. Do not follow me.” Rhodis was still sitting in front of the corpse. When she saw Timon coming, she implored him: “Do not tell! We have stolen it to save her shade. Keep our secret, we will love you, Timon.” “Have no fears,” said the young man. He took the body under the shoulders and Myrto took it under the knees, and they walked on in silence, with Rhodis tottering along behind. Timon said not a word. For the second time in two days, human passion had carried off one of the transitory guests of his bed, and he marvelled at the unreason that drove people out of the enchanted road that leads to perfect happiness. “Impassivity,” he thought, “indifference, quietude, voluptuous serenity! who amongst men will appreciate you? We fight, we struggle, we hope, when one thing only is worth having: namely, to extract from the fleeting moment all the joys it is capable of affording, and to leave one’s bed as little as possible.” They reached the gate of the ruined necropolis. “Where shall we put it?” said Myrto. “Near the god.” “Where is the statue? I have never been in here before. I was afraid of the tombs and the inscriptions. I do not know the Hermanubis. It is probably in the centre of the little garden. Let us look for it. I once came here before when I was a child, in quest of a lost gazelle. Let us follow the alley of white sycamores. We cannot fail to discern it.” Nor did they fail to find it. Dawn mingled its delicate violets with the moonbeams on the monuments. A vague and distant harmony floated in the cypress branches. The regular rustling of the palms, so similar to tiny drops of falling rain, cast an illusion of freshness.