“Much obliged for the classical lesson,” I replied, “but you cannot deny, that man and woman are mortal enemies, in your serene sunlit world as well as in our foggy one. In love there is union into a single being for a short time only, capable of only one thought, one sensation, one will, in order to be then further disunited. And you know this better than I; whichever of the two fails to subjugate will soon feel the feet of the other on his neck—” “And as a rule the man that of the woman,” cried Madame Venus with proud mockery, “which you know better than I.” “Of course, and that is why I don’t have any illusions.” “You mean you are now my slave without illusions, and for that reason you shall feel the weight of my foot without mercy.” “Madame!” “Don’t you know me yet? Yes, I am _cruel_—since you take so much delight in that word-and am I not entitled to be so? Man is the one who desires, woman the one who is desired. This is woman’s entire but decisive advantage. Through his passion nature has given man into woman’s hands, and the woman who does not know how to make him her subject, her slave, her toy, and how to betray him with a smile in the end is not wise.” “Exactly your principles,” I interrupted angrily. “They are based on the experience of thousands of years,” she replied ironically, while her white fingers played over the dark fur. “The more devoted a woman shows herself, the sooner the man sobers down and becomes domineering. The more cruelly she treats him and the more faithless she is, the worse she uses him, the more wantonly she plays with him, the less pity she shows him, by so much the more will she increase his desire, be loved, worshipped by him. So it has always been, since the time of Helen and Delilah, down to Catherine the Second and Lola Montez.” “I cannot deny,” I said, “that nothing will attract a man more than the picture of a beautiful, passionate, cruel, and despotic woman who wantonly changes her favorites without scruple in accordance with her whim—” “And in addition wears furs,” exclaimed the divinity. “What do you mean by that?” “I know your predilection.” “Do you know,” I interrupted, “that, since we last saw each other, you have grown very coquettish.” “In what way, may I ask?” “In that there is no way of accentuating your white body to greater advantage than by these dark furs, and that—” The divinity laughed. “You are dreaming,” she cried, “wake up!” and she clasped my arm with her marble-white hand. “Do wake up,” she repeated raucously with the low register of her voice. I opened my eyes with difficulty. I saw the hand which shook me, and suddenly it was brown as bronze; the voice was the thick alcoholic voice of my cossack servant who stood before me at his full height of nearly six feet. “Do get up,” continued the good fellow, “it is really disgraceful.” “What is disgraceful?”