A golden
incense-burner stood upon the floor, over between the high,
draped windows, and a faint pencil from its dying fires stole
grayly upward. Upon the scented smoke the Buddhist priest fixed
his eyes, and began, with a rapidity that grew as he proceeded,
to pour out his tale. Seated beside him, one round arm resting
upon the cushions so as almost to touch him, Madame listened,
watching the averted yellow face, and always smiling--smiling.
The tale was done at last; the incense-burner was cold, and
breathlessly the Buddhist clutched his knees with lean, clawish
fingers and swayed to and fro, striving to conquer the emotions
that whirled and fought within him. Selecting another cigarette
from the box beside her, and lighting it deliberately, Madame de
Medici spoke.
"My friend of old," she said, and of the language of China she
made strange music, "you come to me from your home in the secret
city, because you know that I can serve you. It is enough."
She touched the bell upon the table, and the white-robed servant
reentered, and, bowing low, held open the door. The little
yellow man, first kneeling upon the carpet before the divan as
before an altar, hurried from the apartment. As the door was
reclosed, and Madame found herself alone again, she laughed
lightly, as Calypso laughed when Ulysses' ship appeared off the
shores of her isle.
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