"Never! I swear it by this flame, it is the torch of Hymen. Thou shalt come with me to my father's house. Remain, my well-beloved!" For marriage-gift he offers her a cup of gold. She gives him her chain; but prefers a lock of his hair to the cup. It is the ghostly hour. She sips with her pale lips the dark wine that is the color of blood. Eagerly he drinks after her. He invokes Love. She, though her poor heart was dying for it, nevertheless resists him. But he, in despair, casts himself upon the bed and weeps. Then she, flinging herself down beside him, murmurs: "Ah! how much hurt thy pain causes me! Yet shouldst thou touch me--what horror! White as snow, cold as ice, alas! is thy betrothed!" "I shall warm thee, love! come to me! even though thou hadst but this moment left the tomb." Sighs and kisses are exchanged.... Love binds and fetters them. Tears mingle with happiness. Thirstily she drinks the fire of his lips; her long-congealed blood takes flame with amorous madness, yet no heart beats in her breast. But the mother was there; listening. Sweet vows; cries of plaint and pleasure. "Hush," says the bride; "I hear the cock crow! Farewell, till to-morrow, after nightfall." Then adieu, and the sound of kisses smothering kisses. Indignant, the mother enters. What does she behold! Her daughter! He seeks to hide her--to veil her! But she disengages herself; and waxing taller, towers from the couch to the roof. "O, mother, mother! dost thou then envy me my sweet night? dost thou seek to drive me from this warm place? Was it not enough to have wrapped me in the shroud, and borne me so early to the tomb! But there was a power that lifted the stone! Vainly did thy priests hum above my grave. What avail salt and water where youth burns? The earth may not chill love.... Thou didst promise me to this youth.... I come to claim my right. "Alack! friend, thou must die. Here thou must pine and wither away. I possess thy hair; to-morrow it shall be white.... Mother, a last prayer! Open my black dungeon; erect a funeral pyre; and let the sweetheart obtain the repose that only flames can give. Let the sparks gush out, let the ashes redden! We return to our ancient gods."--_La Sorcière_, pages 32-34; edition of 1863. * * * * * Contents TO THE READER ONE OF CLEOPATRA'S NIGHTS CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CLARIMONDE ARRIA MARCELLA THE MUMMY'S FOOT OMPHALE: A ROCOCO STORY KING CANDAULES CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V ADDENDA