Page:Edward Prime-Stevenson - The Intersexes.djvu/349

sulted. In consequence of this incident, a duel is impending for Reutler:

… "Under the dais of florentine velvet, the "Byzantine Princess" was sleeping, and sleeping ill; for Eric's livery of infamy had not been yet laid aside. He was smothering in his double girdles; what heavy ornaments were left on his costume were bruising his flesh. The pearls of the dalmatic, the rosaries of amethysts, the rings, the Greek crosses, were in a tangle together along the charming form, pressing little by little into the skin; and even the fine threads of gold-lace were printing strange letters in violet on one of the "Princess's" cheeks. On her neck showed a tiny red fleck, like the bite of a vampire; her diadem was sliding off; her head, thrown far back as she lay there, seemed the head of some one dead, crowned so, with only the hair turned up in two bizarre crescent-shaped masses. The sleeper's mouth was parted; the teeth—of such dazzling whiteness—clenched a little; their setting rosy as if with blood. Her long robe fell in chaste folds; one did not see the legs, but only the shoeless feet, made more delicate to the eyes by the fineness of white silken fleshings—feet stretched out there, like those of a statue on a tomb. Still smothering, the "Princess" made an abrupt movement, putting one arm above her head.

Reutler knelt down before the bed. To-morrow the beautiful Princess of Byzance would awaken dishonored. At three o'clock in the afternoon she would get up, laughing still at the merriment of the evening; she would ring for her valet, she would take her bath, her douche, she would ask for piquant dishes—and not seeing anywhere her elder brother, she would strike her hand upon her brow in despair—remembering—and calling herself a coward!

The elder brother!—he so necessary as the unhappy witness of all Paul-Eric's follies, the sad-hearted spectator, participant, in all those caprices!—Reutler hoped indeed that the Princess would not see him coming back again … Reutler had regulated everything as to the function before him, the new task that was now ahead. No, he must not come back, he must not live any longer—that would be too much for him!

Paul-Eric murmured an indistinct word—"Reutler"—very softly. Out of his sleep, the sleep of a spoiled child who still is amused at some excellent farce, the boy was calling Reutler, to show him Madame de Croissac, there in the box at the theatre, in all her rumpled disorder. It all seemed simply fun to Paul-Eric; he wanted to laugh at it with his friend—with Reutler, his only real friend … Reutler buried his face in his shaking hands.

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