I nodded.

“Moi aussi.”

I bowed politely.

“I am Herma,” she said. “How shall I call you?”

“Call me Lucifer.”

Her voice was deep and unsuited for her frail body. Her features were irregular but not unpleasant. Almost breastless and hipless in an age which insisted upon exposing its feminine charms, she appeared a pleasurable anomaly.

“Since monsieur is bored and since I am bored, would monsieur care to accompany me to my salon where he may find things and people to interest him?”

I looked at her, knitting my brow a little.

She smiled. “Monsieur need not fear. I do not mean to seduce him.”

I smiled in my turn. “Mademoiselle would have no difficulty.”

“The remark is a trifle banal.”

“It is. Pardon.” I gave her my arm. “I beg you to take me to your salon.”

“We can leave here à l’anglaise,” she said.

“But my friend, the Duke– —?”

“Do not worry about him, Prince. The ladies will take care of him and return him to you when no longer needed. He is perfectly safe.”

“As mademoiselle commands.”

Mademoiselle awoke the coachman who was fast asleep.

“Home,” she ordered.

Our journey was made in silence. I was grateful to the young woman. Every now and then, I glanced at her. There was something strange about her. A curve about her mouth and a soft down upon her upper lip reminded me of someone I could not name.

She had never been introduced to me and I was not certain whether she knew more about me than the fact that I was a Russian Prince who appeared bored.

The horses slackened their pace. We turned into the Boulevard du Temple.

“Mademoiselle,” I said, as we alighted, “I am grateful to you for your silence. I was much in need of it, after the noise made by so many chatterboxes of either sex at Madame du Deffand’s.”

She smiled and nodded.

“My friend, Contessa di Rosacroce, who I hope will visit us tonight, believes that the male is the more garrulous of the species. Among animals and birds, she has discovered the same tendency.”

“La Contessa is very observant, mademoiselle.”

“She is a marvelous woman, Prince. She has traveled the world over, knows many languages, and is remarkably beautiful.” She sighed. “Ah, so beautiful, Prince!”

We had already climbed the steps that led to the door of the house. Mademoiselle raised the knocker, the shape of a coiled snake, and struck three times, slowly, then three times in quick succession.

The door opened. “Has anybody arrived?” she asked the butler, a tall negro dressed like an admiral. “Not yet, mademoiselle.”

“So much the better.”

“Prince, are you interested in paintings?”

“Certainly.”

“I have some canvases which will please you, I hope.”

We walked slowly from one painting to another, praising their merits, discussing the artists. My eye was arrested suddenly by a painting, hanging in an adjoining room.

“Mademoiselle, may I examine that work—là bas?”

“Of course. An ancestor of mine. On my mother’s side, I am Italian. It is for this reason, perhaps, that I have been attracted to Lilith.”

“Who is Lilith?”

“La Contessa. I call her Lilith. I imagine Lilith must have been like her,—so beautiful, so wise, and…”

“So wicked, may I add?”

“Wicked!” she exclaimed. “Prince!”

“Pardon. How otherwise could Lilith be but beautiful, wise,—and wicked?”

“Perhaps you are right, Prince. At least, she is very dangerous. I would not advise you to fall in love with her.”

“I could not.”

“Why not?”

I kissed her hand.

“That is banal,” she answered.

“All truths are truisms and all emotions banal, mademoiselle. It cannot be helped. We live in a world which flows on forever, and forever repeats itself.”

“You speak just like Lilith.”

“May I be—Lucifer, then, for you, mademoiselle?”

She smiled. Her eyes closed a trifle. We approached the painting which had allured me so strangely.

“Who is this lady?” I asked.

“Her name, Prince, is—Mona Lisa, La Joconde.”

“I knew her!” I exclaimed.

“It is hardly possible, Monsieur—Lucifer. She has been dead for centuries.”

“No matter. I knew her or one who resembled her phenomenally.”

“She resembles me, they say.”

I looked at her. “Exactly. Your smile. Your lips. Now I remember!”

“Have you also seen me, like Lilith, in a dream?”

“No, no. This was not a dream. I knew her. I loved her. Who is the painter?”

“Leonardo da Vinci.”

“Leonardo da Vinci!”

“Why the surprise? Everybody knows that he painted the Mona Lisa.”

“But where is the ring?”

“What ring?”

“Pardon. My mind was wandering.”

“You are as whimsical as Lilith, monsieur. She ought to like you immensely.”

“Did Mona Lisa have a brother who looked like her? And did Leonardo paint him too?”

“She had a brother who was painted by Leonardo, but he did not transfix his beauty upon a canvas. It was his skin that he painted with gold. The boy died from suffocation. Leonardo’s love unwittingly killed him.”

“What was his name?”

“Antonio.”

“How was Mona Lisa called as a girl?”

“Antonia-Antonia Lisa, but when the boy died in agony, her uncle, who brought her up, called her Mona—the only one. He could not bear to be reminded of the dead boy.”

“It seems strange that I have never heard the story.”

“You have never,” she said astonished, “read the ‘Ballad of the Golden Boy’? The poem relates accurately, except for minor details, the fate of Mona Lisa’s brother.”

“I shall surely read it,” I said absent-mindedly.

Antonio-Antonia—I could see each luminous body walk through the long hall, and approach my bed. I could feel again the delicate texture of their skins. I could hear their stifled moans and the delicate imprint of their kisses.

But Herma, living, distracted me from my reveries. The ghosts disappeared. In a distant corner of the salon, I saw gleaming in the soft candle-light, a marble statue.

“The God of Love,” she sighed, “—Hermaphroditus.”

I gazed musingly at the statue. Was this the goal of my long search, the double flower of passion, Mary and John, Antonio and Antonia, man and woman, in one? I felt someone breathing deeply in back of me. I turned around. Mademoiselle gazed raptly at me. In the chiaroscuro of the place, she was no longer a woman. The delicate down upon her lip had grown darker. Her body assumed a man’s contours…

“Who are you, mademoiselle?” I asked, bewildered.

“I am Herma, Lucifer, Hermaphrodita…”

She pressed my hand.

“The statue is the gift of Lilith. It represents– —”

“You, Herma!”

“At times…”

A dozen emotions assailed me—hate, love, passion, disgust, disillusion, desire.

“Are you disappointed, Prince, to meet the sister of the Son of Hermes and Aphrodite?”

“I am—bouleversé.”

“Lilith also– —”

“Let me see you, Herma—in the light—here.”

She had changed. Once more, she was a girl; once more Mona Lisa! I grasped her head and pressed my lips against hers.

“Be careful, Prince,” she admonished. “Lilith is jealous…”

“What does she love in you, Hermes or Aphrodite?”

“Both.”

“And you– —?”

“I love Lilith and Lucifer.”

She rushed out of the room.

I seated myself on a chair, breathless. My head ached, nearly as it

did upon my return to Jerusalem. My eyes burned as if hot sand had been thrown into them.