Aphrodite: Book Five: Chapter Two. The Dust Returns to the Earth

"DEMETRIOS!" she cried.

And she sprang forward . . .

But after having carefully closed the wooden latch, the young man had not moved, and he maintained in his look so profound a tranquillity that Chrysis was suddenly frozen.

She had hoped for a transport, a movement of his arms, his lips, something, an outstretched hand . . .

Demetrios did not move.

He waited an instant in silence, with a perfect correctness, as though he wished to establish clearly his disengagement.

Then, seeing that nothing was demanded of him, he made four steps to the window and leaned back in the opening, watching the day appear.

Chrysis had seated herself on the low bed, her look fixed and almost stupid.

Then Demetrios spoke to himself.

"It is better," he said, "that it should be thus. Such plays in the moment of death would, after all, be dismal enough. I wonder only that she would not have had a presentiment from the beginning and that she should have welcomed me with this enthusiasm. For me, it is a finished adventure. I regret a little that it

He recalled vaguely an invitation to dine which he had accepted for the evening before, then forgotten in the whirlwind of events, and he promised to send an apology.

He reflected whether he should offer his tailor-slave for sale—an old man who remained attached to the cutting traditions of the preceding reign and was but imperfectly successful with the cup-shaped folds of the new tunics.

His mind was so free that he even drew, upon the wall, with the point of his modeling tool, a hasty study for his group of "Zagreus and the Titans," a variant which modified the movement of the right arm of the principal personage.

Hardly was it finished when someone knocked gently upon the door. Demetrios opened it without haste. The old executioner entered, followed by two helmeted hoplites.

Chrysis raised her head frantically.

"Come, my girl," continued the gaoler. "The moment has come. The hemlock is all crushed. There is truly nothing to do but take it. Do not be afraid. One does not suffer at all."

Chrysis looked at Demetrios, who did not turn aside his eyes.

Holding ever upon him her large black eyes surrounded by green light, she held out her right hand, took the cup and slowly carried it to her mouth.

She touched it with her lips. The bitterness of the poison and also the pains of the poisoning had been tempered by a honeyed narcotic.

She drank half of the cup, then, with a gesture she might have seen at the theater, in the Thyestes of Agathan, or which really issued from a spontaneous sentiment, she offered the rest to Demetrios . . . But with raised hand, the young man declined this indiscreet proposition.

Then the Galilæan swallowed the remainder of the brew, down to the green dregs which remained at the bottom. And there came to her lips a heart-rending smile which contained, indeed, a little scorn.

"What must I do?" she asked the gaoler.

"Walk around the room, my girl, until thy legs feel heavy. Then thou wilt lie down upon thy back and the poison will act by itself."

Chrysis walked to the window, leaned her hand upon the wall,

She remained thus, standing as long as her legs could sustain her. The hoplites were obliged to carry her to the bed when she made a sign that she staggered.

There the old man disposed the white folds of her robe along her outstretched limbs. Then he touched her feet and asked her: "Dost thou feel?"

She replied:

"No."

He touched her knees and asked her:

"Dost thou feel?"

She made a negative sign and, suddenly, with a movement of her mouth and of her shoulders (for even her hands were dead), seized again by a supreme ardor and perhaps by regret for this sterile hour, she lifted herself toward Demetrios . . . But before