“Won’t you join me?” he said, turning to those beautiful boys who stood ready with warm towels and perfume. In a moment they were free of their light morning dress, and jumped into the water and joined hands, and surrounded the Chevalier with a laughing chain.

  “Splash me a little,” he cried, and the boys teased him with water and quite excited him. He chased the prettiest of them and bit his fesses, and kissed him upon the perineum till the dear fellow banded like a carmelite, and its little bald top-knot looked like a great pink pearl under the water. As the boy seemed anxious to take up the active attitude, Tannhäuser graciously descended to the passive — a generous trait that won him the complete affections of his valets de bain, or pretty fish, as he liked to call them, because they loved to swim between his legs.

  However, it is not so much at the very bath itself as in the drying and delicious frictions that a bather finds his chiefest joys, and Venus had appointed her most tried attendants to wait upon Tannhäuser. He was more than satisfied with their skill, and the delicate attention they paid his loving parts aroused feelings within him almost amounting to gratitude, and when the rites were ended any touch of home sickness he might have felt was utterly dispelled. After he had rested a little, and sipped his chocolate, he wandered into the dressing-room. Daucourt, his valet de chambre, Chenille, the perruquier and barber, and two charming young dressers, were awaiting him and ready with suggestions for the morning toilet. The shaving over, Daucourt commanded his underlings to step forward with the suite of suits from which he proposed Tannhäuser should make a choice. The final selection was a happy one. A dear little coat of pigeon rose silk that hung loosely about his hips, and showed off the jut of his behind to perfection; trousers of black lace in flounces, falling — almost like a petticoat — as far as the knee; and a delicate chemise of white muslin, spangled with gold and profusely pleated.

  The two dressers, under Daucourt’s direction, did their work superbly, beautifully, leisurely, with an exquisite deference for the nude, and a really sensitive appreciation of the Chevalier’s scrump tious torso.

  [1] The chef d’oeuvre, it seems to me, of an adorable and impeccable master, who more than any other landscape-painter puts us out of conceit with our cities, and makes us forget the country can be graceless and dull and tiresome.

  That he should ever have been compared unfavourably with Turner — the Wiertz of landscape-painting — seems almost incredible. Corot is Claude’s only worthy rival, but he does not eclipse or supplant the earlier master. A painting of Corot’s is like an exquisite lyric poem, full of love and truth; whilst one of Claude’s recalls some noble eclogue glowing with rich concentrated thought.

  [2] “At an age,” writes Dubonnet, “when girls are for the most part well confirmed in all the hateful practices of coquetry, and attend with gusto, rather than with distaste, the hideous desires and terrible satisfactions of men.” All who would respire the perfumes of Saint Rose’s sanctity, and enjoy the story of the adorable intimacy that subsisted between her and Our Lady, should read Mother Ursula’s “Ineffable And Miraculous Life Of The Flower Of Lima”, published shortly after the canonisation of Rose by Pope Clement X in 1671. “Truly,” exclaims the famous nun, “to chronicle the girlhood of this holy virgin makes as delicate a task as to trace the forms of some slim, sensitive plant, whose lightness, sweetness, and simplicity defy and trouble the most cunning pencil.” Mother Ursula certainly acquits herself of the task with wonderful delicacy and taste. A cheap reprint of the biography has lately been brought out by Chaillot and Son.

  [3] It is a thousand pities that concerts should only be given either in the after noon, when you are torpid, or in the evening, when you are nervous. Surely you should assist at fine music as you assist at the Mass — before noon — when your brain and heart are not too troubled and tired with the secular influences of the growing day.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Of the ecstasy of Adolphe, and the remarkable manifestation thereof

  As pleased as Lord Foppington with his appearance, the Chevalier tripped off to bid good-morning to Venus. He found her in a sweet muslin frock, wandering upon the lawn, and plucking flowers to deck her breakfast table. He kissed her lightly upon the neck.

  “I’m just going to feed Adolphe,” she said, pointing to a little reticule of buns that hung from her arm. Adolphe was her pet uni corn. “He is such a dear,” she continued; “milk white all over excepting his nose, mouth, nostrils and John. This way.” The unicorn had a very pretty palace of its own, made of green foliage and golden bars, a fitting home for such a delicate and dainty beast. Ah, it was a splendid thing to watch the white creature roaming in its artful cage, proud and beautiful, knowing no mate, and coming to no hand except the Queen’s itself. As Tannhäuser and Venus approached, Adolphe began prancing and curveting, pawing the soft turf with his ivory hoofs and flaunting his tail like a gonfalon. Venus raised the latch and entered.

  “You mustn’t come in with me, Adolphe is so jealous,” she said, turning to the Chevalier, who was following her, “but you can stand outside and look on, Adolphe likes an audience.” Then in her delicious fingers she broke the spicy buns and with affectionate niceness breakfasted her snowy pet. When the last crumbs had been scattered, Venus brushed her hands together and pretended to leave the cage without taking any further notice of Adolphe. Every morning she went through this piece of play, and every morning the amorous unicorn was cheated into a distressing agony lest that day should have proved the last of Venus’ love. Not for long, though, would she leave him in that doubtful, piteous state, but running back passionately to where he stood, made adorable amends for her unkindness.

  Poor Adolphe! How happy he was, touching the Queen’s breasts with his quick tongue-tip. I have no doubt that the keener scent of animals must make women much more attractive to them than to men; for the gorgeous odour that but faintly fills our nostrils must be revealed to the brute creation in divine fullness.

  Anyhow, Adolphe sniffed as never a man did around the skirts of Venus. After the first charming interchange of affectionate delicacies was over, the unicorn lay down upon his side, and, closing his eyes, beat his stomach wildly with the mark of manhood.

  Venus caught that stunning member in her hands and laid her cheek along it; but few touches were wanted to consummate the creature’s pleasure. The Queen bared her left arm to the elbow, and with the soft underneath of it made amazing movements upon the tightly-strung instrument. When the melody began to flow, the unicorn offered up an astonishing vocal accompaniment.

  Tannhäuser was amused to learn that the etiquette of the Venusberg compelled every body to await the outburst of these venereal sounds before they could sit down to déjeuner.

  Adolphe had been quite profuse that morning.

  Venus knelt where it had fallen, and lapped her little apéritif.

  CHAPTER IX

  How Venus and Tannhäuser breakfasted and then drove through the palace gardens

  The breakfasters were scattered over the gardens in tête-à-têtes and tiny parties. Venus and Tannhäuser sat together upon the lawn that lay in front of the Casino, and made havoc of a ravishing déjeuner. The Chevalier was feeling very happy. Everything around him seemed so white and light and matinal; the floating frocks of the ladies, the scarce-robed boys and satyrs stepping hither and thither elegantly, with meats and wines and fruits; the damask tablecloths, the delicate talk and laughter that rose everywhere; the flowers’ colour and the flowers’ scent; the shady trees, the wind’s cool voice, and the sky above that was as fresh and pastoral as a perfect sixth. And Venus looked so beautiful.

  “You’re such a dear!” murmured Tannhäuser, holding her hand.

  At the further end of the lawn, and a little hidden by a rose-tree, a young man was breakfasting alone. He toyed nervously with his food now and then, but for the most part leant back in his chair with unemployed hands, and gazed stupidly at Venus.

  “That’s Felix,” said the Goddess, in answer to an enquiry from the Chevalier; and she went on to explain his attitude. Felix always attended Venus upon her little latrinal excursions, holding her, serving her, and making much of all she did. To undo her things, lift her skirts, to wait and watch the coming, to dip a lip or finger in the royal output, to stain himself deliciously with it, to lie beneath her as the favours fell, to carry off the crumpled, crotted paper — these were the pleasures of that young man’s life.

  Truly there never was a queen so beloved by her subjects as Venus. Everything she wore had its lover.

  Heavens! how her handkerchiefs were filched, her stockings stolen! Daily, what intrigues, what countless ruses to possess her merest frippery? Every scrap of her body was adored. Never, for Savaral, could her ear yield suff cient wax! Never, for Pradon, could she spit prodigally enough!

  And Saphius found a month an intolerable time.

  After breakfast was over, and Felix’s fears lest Tannhäuser should have robbed him of his capricious rights had been dispelled, Venus invited the Chevalier to take a more extensive view of the gardens, parks, pavilions, and ornamental waters. The carriage was ordered. It was a delicate, shell-like affair, with billowy cushions and a light canopy, and was drawn by ten satyrs, dressed as finely as the coachmen of the Empress Pauline the First.

  The drive proved interesting and various, and Tannhäuser was quite delighted with almost everything he saw.

  And who is not pleased when on either side of him rich lawns are spread with lovely frocks and white limbs — and upon flower-beds the dearest ladies are implicated in a glory of underclothing — when he can see in the deep cool shadow of the trees warm boys entwined, here at the base, there at the branch — when in the fountain’s wave Love holds his court, and the insistent water burrows in every delicious crease and crevice?

  A pretty sight, too, was little Rosalie, perched like a postilion upon the painted phallus god of all gardens. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling as the carriage passed.

  Round her neck and slender girlish shoulders there was a cloud of complex dress, over which bulged her wig-like flaxen tresses. Her legs and feet were bare, and the toes twisted in an amorous style. At the foot of the statue lay her shoes and stockings and a few other things.

  Tannhäuser was singularly moved at this spectacle, and rose out of all proportion. Venus slipped the fingers of comfort under the lace flounces of his trousers, saying, “Is it all mine? Is it all mine?” and doing fascinating things. In the end, the carriage was only prevented from being overturned by the happy intervention of Mrs. Marsuple, who stepped out from somewhere or other just in time to preserve its balance.

  How the old lady’s eye glistened as Tannhäuser withdrew his panting blade! In her sincere admiration for fine things, she quite forgot and forgave the shock she had received from the falling of the gay equipage. Venus and Tannhäuser were profuse with apology and thanks, and quite a crowd of loving courtiers gathered round, consoling and congratulating in a breath.

  The Chevalier vowed he would never go in the carriage again, and was really quite upset about it. However, after he had had a little support from the smelling-salts, he recovered his self-possession, and consented to drive on further.

  The landscape grew rather mysterious. The park, no longer troubled and adorned with figures, was full of grey echoes and mysterious sounds; the leaves whispered a little sadly, and there was a grotto that murmured like a voice haunting the silence of a deserted oracle. Tannhäuser became a little triste. In the distance, through the trees, gleamed a still argent lake — a reticent, romantic water that must have held the subtlest fish that ever were. Around its marge the trees and flags and fleurs de luce were unbreakably asleep.

  The Chevalier fell into a strange mood, as he looked at the lake. It seemed to him that the thing would speak, reveal some curious secret, say some beautiful word, if he should dare wrinkle its pale face with a pebble.

  “I should be frightened to do that, though,” he said to himself. Then he wondered what might be upon the other side; other gardens, other gods? A thousand drowsy fancies passed through his brain. Sometimes the lake took fantastic shapes, or grew to twenty times its size, or shrunk into a miniature of itself, without ever once losing its unruffled calm, its deathly reserve. When the water increased, the Chevalier was very frightened, for he thought how huge the frogs must have become. He thought of their big eyes and monstrous wet feet, but when the water lessened, he laughed to himself, whilst thinking how tiny the frogs must have grown. He thought of their legs that must look thinner than spiders’, and of their dwindled croaking that never could be heard. Perhaps the lake was only painted, after all. He had seen things like it at the theatre. Anyway, it was a wonderful lake, a beautiful lake, and he would love to bathe in it, but he was sure he would be drowned if he did.

  CHAPTER X

  Of the “Stabat Mater”, Spiridion and De La Pine

  When he woke up from his day-dreams, he noticed that the carriage was on its way back to the palace. They stopped at the Casino first, and stepped out to join the players at petits chevaux. Tannhäuser preferred to watch the game rather than play himself, and stood behind Venus, who slipped into a vacant chair and cast gold pieces upon lucky numbers. The first thing that Tannhäuser noticed was the grace and charm, the gaiety and beauty of the croupiers. They were quite adorable even when they raked in one’s little losings.

  Dressed in black silk, and wearing white kid gloves, loose yellow wigs and feathered toques, with faces oval and young, bodies lithe and quick, voices silvery and affectionate, they made amends for all the hateful arrogance, disgusting aplomb, and shameful ugliness of the rest of their kind.

  The dear fellow who proclaimed the winner was really quite delightful. He took a passionate interest in the horses, and had licked all the paint off their petits couillons!

  You will ask me no doubt, “Is that all he did?” I will answer, “Not quite,” as the merest glance at their jolis derrières would prove.

  In the afternoon light that came through the great silken-blinded windows of the Casino, all the gilded decorations, all the chandeliers, the mirrors, the polished floor, the painted ceiling, the horses gallop ing round their green meadow, the fat rouleaux of gold and silver, the ivory rakes, the fanned and strange-frocked crowd of dandy gamesters looked magnificently rich and warm. Tea was being served. It was so pretty to see some plush little lady sipping nervously, and keeping her eyes over the cup’s edge intently upon the slackening horses. The more indifferent left the tables and took their tea in parties here and there.

  Tannhäuser found a great deal to amuse him at the Casino. Ponchon was the manager, and a person of extraordinary invention. Never a day but he was ready for a new show — a novel attraction. A glance through the old Casino programmes would give you a very considerable idea of his talent. What countless ballets, comedies, comedy-ballets, concerts, masques, charades, proverbs, pantomimes, tableaux magiques, and peep-shows eccentriques; what troupes of marionettes, what burlesques!

  Ponchon had an astonishing flair for new talent, and many of the principal comedians and singers at the Queen’s Theatre and Opera House had made their first appearance and reputation at the Casino.

  This afternoon the pièce de resistance was a performance of Ros sini’s “Stabat Mater”, an adorable masterpiece. It was given in the beautiful Salle des Printemps Parfumés. Ah! what a stunning render ing of the delicious démodée pièce de décadence. There is a subtle quality about the music, like the unhealthy bloom upon wax fruit, that both orchestra and singer contrived to emphasise with con summate delicacy.

  The Virgin was sung by Spiridion, that soft, incomparable alto. A miraculous virgin, too, he made of her.

  To begin with, he dressed the role most effectively. His plump legs up to the feminine hips of him were in very white stockings clocked with a false pink. He wore brown kid boots, buttoned to mid-calf, and his whorish thighs had thin scarlet garters round them. His jacket was cut like a jockey’s, only the sleeves ended in manifold frills, and round the neck, and just upon the shoulders there was a black cape. His hair, dyed green, was curled into ringlets, such as the smooth Madonnas of Morales are made lovely with, and fell over his high egg-shaped creamy forehead, and about his ears and cheeks and back.

  The alto’s face was fearful and wonderful — a dream face. The eyes were full and black, with puffy blue-rimmed hemispheres beneath them, the cheeks, inclining to fatness, were powdered and dimpled, the mouth was purple and curved painfully, the chin tiny, and exqui sitely modelled, the expression cruel and womanish. Heavens! how splendid he looked and sounded.

  An exquisite piece of phrasing was accompanied with some curly gesture of the hand, some delightful undulation of the stomach, some nervous movement of the thigh, or glorious rising of the bosom.

  The performance provoked enthusiasm — thunders of applause. Claude and Clair pelted the thing with roses, and carried him off in triumph to the tables. His costume was declared ravishing. The men almost pulled him to bits, and mouthed at his great quiver ing bottom! The little horses were quite forgotten for the moment.

  Sup, the penetrating, burst through his silk fleshings, and thrust in bravely up to the hilt, whilst the alto’s legs were feasted upon by Pudex, Cyril, Anquetin, and some others. Ballice, Corvo, Quadra, Senillé, Mellefont, Théodore Le Vit, and Matta all of the egoistic cult, stood and crouched round, saturating the lovers with warm douches.

  Later in the afternoon, Venus and Tannhäuser paid a little visit to De La Pine’s studio, as the Chevalier was very anxious to have his portrait painted. De La Pine’s glory as a painter was hugely in creased by his reputation as a fouteur, for ladies that had pleasant memories of him looked with a biased eye upon his fètes galantes merveilleuses, portraits and folies bergères.