of a thousand hues. Small silver dishes that Benvenuto
might have designed, filled with succulent and aromatic meats, were
distributed upon a cloth of snowy damask. Bottles of every shape,
slender ones from the Rhine, stout fellows from Holland, sturdy ones
from Spain, and quaint basket-woven flasks from Italy, absolutely
littered the board. Drinking-glasses of every size and hue filled up the
interstices, and the thirsty German flagon stood side by side with the
aerial bubbles of Venetian glass that rest so lightly on their
threadlike stems. An odour of luxury and sensuality floated through the
apartment. The lamps that burned in every direction seemed to diffuse a
subtle incense on the air, and in a large vase that stood on the floor I
saw a mass of magnolias, tuberoses, and jasmines grouped together,
stifling each other with their honeyed and heavy fragrance.

The inhabitants of my room seemed beings well suited to so sensual an
atmosphere. The women were strangely beautiful, and all were attired in
dresses of the most fantastic devices and brilliant hues. Their figures
were round, supple, and elastic; their eyes dark and languishing; their
lips full, ripe, and of the richest bloom. The three men wore
half-masks, so that all I could distinguish were heavy jaws, pointed
beards, and brawny throats that rose like massive pillars out of their
doublets. All six lay reclining on Roman couches about the table,
drinking down the purple wines in large draughts, and tossing back their
heads and laughing wildly.

I stood, I suppose, for some three minutes, with my back against the
wall staring vacantly at the bacchanal vision, before any of the
revellers appeared to notice my presence. At length, without any
expression to indicate whether I had been observed from the beginning or
not, two of the women arose from their couches, and, approaching, took
each a hand and led me to the table. I obeyed their motions
mechanically. I sat on a couch, between them as they indicated. I
unresistingly permitted them to wind their arms about my neck.

"You must drink," said one, pouring out a large glass of red wine, "here
is Clos Vougeout of a rare vintage; and here," pushing a flask of
amber-hued wine before me, "is Lachryma Christi."

"You must eat," said the other, drawing the silver dishes toward her.
"Here are cutlets stewed with olives, and here are slices of a _filet_
stuffed with bruised sweet chestnuts"--and as she spoke, she, wi