“Does that mean it’s worthless? Listen, it’s one of your women’s masks, four of them have one, it’s the fashion. . . And besides. . . ah!. . . and besides, it’s fine for a doctor! And also, one of your women’s masks, that should please you, you’ll imagine it’s her you’re embracing. . . and I shall imagine that I’ve cut her head off. . . And then. . . I’m not altogether a harlot, you wouldn’t want me to be altogether naked!”

Her face disappeared behind the black velvet. Her eyes and teeth shone.

A second later a click was heard, and Bathybius’ white hair vaguely frosted up the little windowpane at the end of the hall.

“Let’s go, Indian,” jested Ellen. “Science is watching us, Science with a capital S, or rather, since even that is not impressive enough, SCIENCE with a capital SCYTHE!”

Marcueil remained cold:

“After all, how do you know that I am the Indian? I shall be, perhaps. . . afterward.”

“I don’t know,” said Ellen, “I don’t know anything. You will be and then you won’t be. . . you will be more than the Indian.”

“AND MORE,” mused Marcueil. “What does that mean? It’s like the fleeting shadow of that race. . . And more, that’s something that is no longer fixed, it recedes beyond the infinite, it’s the ungraspable, a phantom. . .”

“You were the Shadow,” said Ellen.

And he took her in his arms; automatically, just to have some tangible support to hold on to.

They became aware of the fragrance of some of the Perpetual Motion race roses, which were in a crystal vase on a table, still not faded.

Like a crown of laurels with its leaves quivering in the breeze, the name of the being who was to show that he was “beyond the Indian” hovered before Marcueil’s eyes and then became clear: “THE SUPERMALE.”

The clock announced that it was midnight, and Ellen listened to its strokes.

“Has it finished? Well, then. . . it’s your move, dear Master.”

And they fell toward each other, their teeth rang, and the hollows of their chests – so absolutely were they the same height – clung together by suction and then rang out like a shot.

They began to make love, and it was like the departure of a distant expedition, of a great nuptial journey traversing not cities but all Love.

When first they came together Ellen could scarcely repress a cry, and her face contracted. To stifle her acute suffering she needed something to bite, and she chose the Indian’s lip. Marcueil had been right in saying that for certain men all women are virgins, and Ellen suffered in proof of it, but she did not cry out, although she was hurt.

They both drew back at the very moment that others cling most closely together, for both were thinking of themselves alone, and had no wish to prepare other lives.