“What a strange ring you have, Count. Is it from India?”

“No, Toni—this ring belonged to one of Mohammed’s nephews…it brings good luck to its wearer.”

“Has it brought good luck to you?”

“I have had the good fortune of meeting you.”

“It is rather the other way, then, Count. He who wears it brings good luck to those with whom he comes in contact.”

“Do you really think it beautiful?”

“Very.”

“Well, then, I shall have it cut and made into two rings, and if you will allow me, I shall present each of you with one, so that you may always have good luck or bring good luck to others.”

“Oh, Count, you are too good to us, really!” they exclaimed, their fingers pecking at my sleeves like small birds.

“We shall remember you—always,” Antonio said.

“Whenever we are unaccountably happy, we shall think of you.” Antonia added.

“Will you think of us, too?” the boy asked.

“I shall think of you—long after you have forgotten me.”

“Count, would you like to see the rings our mother gave us before she died?”

“Oh, yes, Toni, bring the little box.”

Antonio went out. Antonia placed her small hand in mine and leaned her head against my shoulder.

“Count…who are you?”

I was startled.

“Who are you?”

I kissed her dark tresses gently, and equally gently removed my hand from hers. This bud was too tender, too beautiful, to be plucked.

Antonio returned. He opened a small gold box, with two rings livid with exquisite rubies. Centuries of mystery and of passion seemed to slumber in the depths of the stones.

“How beautiful!” I exclaimed.

“Mother told us to wear them when we are happy. Shall we not wear them tonight, brother?” And the two rings blazed on the hands of the children, flaming like rose leaves, scarlet like drops of blood.

Kotikokura snored, his head resting upon one of the dogs, their shadow mingling and forming a bulky elephant whose trunk made a semicircle.

We talked, intoxicated by something that was not wine. At last nature demanded her toll. The sandman strewed his ware into the golden eyes of the two children. Antonio yawned. Antonia blinked.

“It is time to retire,” I said.

They were reluctant, but finally yielded.

At the door, Antonia threw me a kiss. Antonio raised his hand half-way, checked himself, and blushed.

I was about to draw the curtains of my bed, when I heard footsteps, hardly heavier than those of a cat, approach. I strained my eyes, but I could see nothing. The hall was very long, and I had time to conjecture.

A soft-tipped finger pressed against my lips. “Sh…” I moved slowly toward the wall. The bed hardly felt the weight of her.—She pressed her lips on mine.—My hands were many mouths, drinking nectar.—A long kiss.—A pressure of breast against breast, a mingling of lips, a moan…

Like some white weightless feather which a zephyr wafts about a garden, she rose and disappeared in the blackness of the room.—Thoughts like many-colored confetti fell softly upon my brain, making beautiful patterns which bore no names.– —

Suddenly, I heard the soft footsteps again. Was she returning? Did her lips ache for another kiss…? Again the pressure of a finger against my lips. “Sh…” Again a kiss, tender and impetuous. Did my hands deceive me? Was not beauty a flame? Was not joy a slow swooning?

I awoke. I rubbed my eyes and forehead trying to remember something—something incredibly beautiful and delicious. What was it? When did I…? Was it a dream? I felt a pressure against my thigh. The ruby—a frozen drop of flame—on the head of the serpent.

“Antonia,” I whispered.

I placed the ring upon my small finger. It fitted perfectly. I rose. Something fell to the floor.

“The other ring! Antonio?” I placed the ring on top of the other. They melted into one.

‘Who are you?’

‘We are Toni.’

‘Both Toni?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you one or two?’

‘We are one and two.’

‘Both one?’

‘Yes.’

How incredibly beautiful!

The Double Blossom of Passim—the almost impossible loveliness of John and Mary in one!

A courier arrived with a letter from Baron di Martini. Affairs of state compelled him to prolong his absence for a few weeks. Unfortunately, the presence of the “scatterbrains” was also essential. Meanwhile, he would consider it a special favor if I remained his guest.

“Are the children gone?” I asked.

“Yes, Count. Early this morning, a messenger from the Duke came to fetch them.”

“Kotikokura, we must go.”

He sighed. His eye caught my hand. He grinned. I felt a little uneasy.

“It is the gift of the children.”

Then, discreetly as ever, Kotikokura made preparations for our departure.

“Before I go I must see a goldsmith who will make two rings of this one—one for Antonio and one for Antonia. Alas, Kotikokura, we shall never see the children again—at least, never as they were…last night…never. Ah, the perfect hour of youth is more frail than the outer rim of the moon when the dawn kisses her lips!”

LXIV: MAN A RHEUMATIC TORTOISE—I TAKE STOCK OF MYSELF—I BRING THE HOLY GRAIL TO ALEXANDER VI—I DISCUSS THEOLOGY WITH THE POPE—THE HOLY FATHER AND HIS UNHOLY FAMILY—I AM TALKATIVE—ALEXANDER ASKS A QUESTION—TRAPPED

KOTIKOKURA and I walked along the shore of the Tiber which, heavy with recent rain, moved ponderously like a man newly enriched. Lonesomeness made me shiver with a sudden chill. I took Kotikokura’s arm and felt comforted a little. Strange that this queer being—captured almost like a wild animal in the African jungle—was my only companion.

Fourteen centuries! What profound change had occurred in me? I remained bewildered among my thoughts. I had learned divers magics, sciences, languages and philosophies. I had witnessed the rise and fall of emperors and civilizations. I had seen the colossal growth of Christianity—its physical power and its spiritual weakness. I had learned the meaning of history and the meaning of legend, and how truth and fiction mingled irrevocably together. I had experienced innumerable shades of love from grossest sensuality to a touch so vague that it would hardly graze the tip of a butterfly’s wing. Beggar, saint, prince, monk, god and devil, I had lived a thousand lives.

What new paths had I discovered? How was I different from Cartaphilus, the young captain in the Roman army of occupation in Jerusalem at the time when the young Jewish carpenter was condemned to die on the cross? Under changing masks I remained myself. In spite of all, I was still Cartaphilus!

What, then, was the purpose of traversing so long a road? Would sixty or seventy years have sufficed? Was everything relative in a world that would not or could not remain still for a fraction of a second?

Yes, that was my discovery: things only seemed, there was neither truth nor lie, neither good nor evil, neither God nor Devil.

“There is neither life nor death,” said Apollonius. “The feet that tread upon the dust and the trodden dust are not as different as they seem. Life and death are one!”

Progress? There was no progress. For every step forward humanity takes one step back. Man hurls his ideas far ahead of him, like golden discs, but he himself crawls onward like a rheumatic tortoise.

“Kotikokura, have I changed much since you first met me—you remember, in Africa—long, long ago?”

He shook his head.

“Am I still the same?”

“Ca-ta-pha god always.”

“Perhaps you are right, Kotikokura. Does not a tree, once grown to maturity, remain unchanged, even if it lives two thousand years? Time merely draws circles about its trunk to indicate that he has forgotten nothing and no one, that he still is the punctilious slave of Eternity, who sits unmoved upon the peak of the universe, and within whose shadow all things are.”