“And more than ever in love with you.”

“Kotikokura, you should have taught your master patience and modesty.”

“Ca-ta-pha god.”

“In a godless world, there is still one believer,” she smiled.

“And in an unromantic world, there is still one lover,” I added.

“You are Don Quijote and not the Wandering Jew.”

“No, not Don Quijote,” I protested. “I saw him wandering about with Sancho Panza and their donkeys. He was a charlatan, a reformer of the kind one meets in America. He derived much profit from his grotesque notions, and the blows he received were much exaggerated by Cervantes who desired to arouse pity in the hearts of his readers. Sancho Panza, poor fellow, lived in the world of illusions attributed to his master. He believed in chivalry and in his master and received as recompense, rebukes and sarcasm from the latter, and the ridicule of every succeeding generation that reads the book.”

“Sancho Panza reminds me of Kotikokura. He too believes in his master and his master’s illusions and as reward, he obtains– —”

“His master’s love,” I interrupted.

“Ca-ta-pha god,” Kotikokura insisted.

Salome laughed and looked at me. Her eyes were like green stars.

“Salome is more beautiful than all illusions, more gorgeous than drug-begotten dreams.” I kissed her throat.

“Cartaphilus does not wait for his reward,” she said.

The gate opened wide at our approach. A burly individual bowed to the ground.

In the center of the garden, a tall fountain rose and fell softly like a long whip that strikes caressingly the back of a cherished animal. In the basin, black swans glided shadow-like. Peacocks spread wide their tails and followed their mistress, reflections of her magnificence. Upon the tall palm trees, small monkeys rushed up and down, screaming. A gigantic tortoise whose back glittered as a strangely polished jewel, moved imperceptibly, its head shaking like a silent bell.

I looked about, bewildered.

“Child,” Salome said, stroking gently my cheek, “you fear it is illusion again.”

“You always guess my thoughts.”

“No, this is not Persia—and what you see is reality.”

“So it seemed to me then.”

“This time you need not fear,” she assured me.

We entered the palace, a building massive and yet graceful, practical, solid. Here and there, however, were touches of daintiness that bespoke the nature of the owner. A strange mixture of freshness and antiquity pervaded the place which, instead of giving the impression of incongruity, suggested a beautiful harmony, as if time had merely removed the glare and blatancy characteristic of newness, but left all the freshness. I thought of an aged tree whose leaves had the tender greenness of saplings.

Salome guessed my thought and smiled, pleased.

“Just like yourself, queen of queens.”

“And like you too, Cartaphilus. And like this wild creature Kotikokura.”

“Life is not an evil, Salome.”

“Perhaps we are dead and that is why we are incorruptible. We live not in time but in eternity.”

“Are you quoting Spinoza?”

“You were more fortunate than I. I came some months after his death. The old woman was dying also. She spoke to me of you.”

“She never knew my name even.”

“Your name? What name? If I were to discover your whereabouts by your name– —”

We laughed.

Salome ordered two servants to undress us and help us with our bath.

In a corner of the garden, shaded by willow trees and rose bushes, the cool soft waters of a lake splashed noiselessly their artificial banks.

After our ablution in the lake, we were anointed with oils and perfumes as in the time of the kings of Israel, and were offered silken robes and satin slippers, studded with jewels.

I thought of the glory of Salome rising out of the waters, more fragrant than the roses that hid her from view. Dinner had meanwhile been prepared and the table spread in a ten column portico.

Kotikokura preferred to eat with the majordomo, the colossus who had opened the gate for us. I was not displeased for I wished to be alone with Salome.

A youth and a young girl whose skin was as smooth and as black as ebony, dressed in silken garments emphasizing the suppleness of their limbs, waited upon us.

We reclined on opposite sides of the table on couches, Roman fashion, eating delicate but simple foods, and drinking out of exquisitely chiseled goblets, wines and liqueurs that sparkled like molten jewels.

At a distance, some one played the lute. The music mingled with the perfume of many flowers and the singing of birds.

“Salome, this is Paradise and only a god as cruel and as jealous as Yahweh shall drive me out of it.”

Salome smiled. “Or a goddess as merciless as Princess Salome, daughter of King Herod.”

“Fortunately, Yahweh is dead and Salome is no longer Princess of Judea.”

“Who is she?”

“She is the Goddess of Reason, and Reason knows no cruelty.”

She laughed. “Strange that Cartaphilus should accept a Goddess of Reason.”

“Salome is the mother of Beauty.”

“And Cartaphilus the father of flattery and chivalry.”

We remained silent, eating the fruits which, like manna, tasted of all delicious things.

Salome smiled. “My servants believe that you are my bride-groom, come to wed me.”

“Your servants are attentive and knowing.”

“Only a month ago, their mistress died and her great granddaughter has inherited her wealth…”

I knit my brow.

“Cartaphilus, will you never be able to jump at a conclusion except by a slow and masculine process of ratiocination? I have lived here with few interruptions for a hundred and fifty years nearly, since our strange night at Herma’s. How could that be accomplished save by calling myself my own descendant? To your right, there is a crypt in which are buried my great-grandmother, my grandmother, and my mother. I have raised statues to all of them.”

“And the corpses?”

“Wax figures, of course, and a little magic. The black art is not dead…”

“Oh lovely great-granddaughter of Salome, more beautiful and more radiant, be indeed my bride!”

“Salome does not break her promise. The time is nearly ripe.”

“Then Cartaphilus shall remain here forever.”

“Shall the Wandering Jew forswear his wanderings?”

“He is not a Jew any more and he will no longer wander save in the company of the great-granddaughter of the incomparable queen.”

“It will be the death of Cartaphilus.”

“Then death shall be more welcome than life.”

“Salome belongs to an old generation. She may not believe in divorce.”

“Have not nearly two thousand years proved the constancy of Cartaphilus? Why, there are stars that are less– —”

“Persistent,” she interrupted.

“The ancient order of geometry is overthrown by the new mathematics. Two parallel lines may meet long before infinity,” I said, and raising my glass, I continued: “Here is to Einstein—greatest of mathematicians!”

We descended several steps. A gate opened and closed behind us automatically. We were surrounded at once by high stone walls, surmounted by an immense glass dome.

“Where are we, Salome?”

“The new Garden of Eden in which I fashion a different world.”

I touched a rose. It curled its petals until it assumed the shape of a red-furred cat. Out of its pistil or muzzle—I could not tell which—jutted a thin stream of perfume. I retreated before what seemed a leopard, glaring at me. The leopard unfolded into a vast dahlia. Peacocks’ tails were the leaves of a palm tree. A butterfly, waving its wings, was a carnation of the loveliest hue. A bud that Salome offered me assumed the shape of a bee, the tips of its leaves buzzing. Out of chalices of flowers, birds sang exquisite music. Out of birds’ beaks hung branches, laden with fruit. Lizards, many-colored, grew like microscopic trees. The animal world merged with the plant; perfumes mingled with color; leaves were incipient wings; songs approached human voice.