Below, in the
lobby, where the pillars of Mokattam alabaster upheld the painted
roof, the little yellow man from Pekin shivered slightly,
although the air was warm for Limehouse, and always turned his
mysterious eyes toward a corner of the great staircase which was
visible from where he sat, coiled up, a lonely figure in the
mushrabiyeh chair. Madame blew a wreath of smoke from her lips,
and, through half-closed eyes, watched it ascend, unbroken,
toward the canopy of cloth-of-gold which masked the ceiling. A
Madonna by Leonardo da Vinci faced her across the apartment, the
painted figure seeming to watch the living one upon the divan.
Madame smiled into the eyes of the Madonna. Surely even the
great Leonardo must have failed to reproduce that smile--the
great Leonardo whose supreme art has captured the smile of Mona
Lisa. Madame had the smile of Cleopatra, which, it is said, made
Caesar mad, though in repose the beauty of Egypt's queen left him
cold. A robe of Kashmiri silk, fine with a phantom fineness,
draped her exquisite shape as the art of Cellini draped the
classic figures which he wrought in gold and silver; it seemed
incorporate with her beauty.
A second wreath of smoke curled upward to the canopy, and Madame
watched this one also through the veil of her curved black
lashes, as the Eastern woman watches the world through her veil.
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