ho lived in the time of Saint Louis; this skeleton in a
parchment case furnished me with a quantity of paradise, under the guise
of green paste, in little Japanese cups done up in silver wire. I intend
to initiate you into these hypercelestial delights. I shall give you a
box of happiness, which will make you forget all the false coquettes in
the world."

Without listening to my repeated refusals, Granson begged me to call him
henceforth Sidi-Mahmoud; had his room spread with Persian rugs, ottomans
piled up in every direction, the walls cushioned to lean against, and
perfumes scattered about; three or four dusky musicians placed
themselves in a convenient recess with taraboucks, rebeks and guzlas--an
Ethiopean, naked to the waist, served us the precious drug on a red
lacquered waiter.

To accommodate Granson I swallowed several spoonfuls of this greenish
confection, which, at first, seemed to be flavored with honey and
pistachio. I had dressed myself--for Granson is one of those obstinate
idiots that one is compelled to yield to in order to get rid of--in an
Anatolian costume of fabulous richness, my friend insisting that when
one ascends to Paradise he should not be annoyed by the slope of his
sleeves.

In a few moments I felt a slight warmth in my stomach--my body threw off
sparks and flared up like a bank-bill in the flame of a candle; I was
subject to no law of nature; weight, bulk, opacity had entirely
disappeared. I retained my form, but it became transparent; flexible,
fluid objects passed through me without inconveniencing me in the least;
I could enlarge or decrease myself to suit any place I wished to occupy.
I could transport myself at will from one place to another. I was in an
impossible world, lighted by a gleam of azure grotto, in the centre of a
bouquet of fire-works formed of everchanging sheafs, luminous flowers
with gold and silver foliage, and calices of rubies, sapphires and
diamonds; fountains of melted moonbeams, throwing their spray over
crystal vases, which sang with voices like a harmonica the arias of the
greatest singers. A symphony of perfumes followed this first
enchantment, which vanished in a shower of spangles at the end of a few
seconds; the theme was a faint odor of iris and acacia bloom which
pursued, avoided, crossed and embraced each other with delicious ease
and grace. If anything in this world can give you an approximative idea
of this exquisitely perfumed movement, it is the d