She was dressed in a loose, many-coloured bright garment, held in at the waist by a wide brass belt. A yellow veil was thrown over her head; her bare arms were crossed on her breast, and bathed in the light of that summer day, with eyes closed, she was doing this dreadful work, without apparent shame, without mortification.
On the contrary, she seemed unaware of the degradation of her work. She could not have looked more majestic or more beautiful had she been a queen in the act of receiving a foreign ambassador. But I, who loved her and called her my goddess, felt the shame and tears of rage sprang to my eyes.
Saturated as I was with Greek mythology, there came to my mind the thought of Danaë, daughter of Acrisius, King of Argos, and mother of Perseus. Because she refused to listen to the love-words of the king who received her, after her father exiled her, she was condemned to similar work.
A great excitement seized me. I thought that the story I had read did not belong to the past—that it was being enacted in that very place, at that very hour, and before my own eyes. Nay, more! I was a Greek runner, ordered by the gods of Olympus to announce to her the return of her son.
Possessed by the conviction, I rushed up to her, and stopped her in her work.
“Hail to thee, Danaë!” I cried. “Perseus, your son, is coming, bringing the head of Medusa, and with it he will turn into stone those who are ill-treating you.”
She opened her eyes and gazed at me with a puzzled expression.
I repeated my words, my enthusiasm a trifle damped by her reception of them.
When I had explained everything to her, and had given her every detail of Danaë’s life and her son’s achievements a smile broke over her face. Of all our visible signs, the soul comes nearest to speaking in the smile. When the halaïc smiled it was as if God were peeping through the clouds.
“You adorable baby! You adorable Greek baby!” she laughed.