‘What miracle is that? My memory fails me, if I may use the expression,’ says Sappho, in a puzzled voice.
‘Madame, I scarcely believe that a lady so widely and exquisitely informed as Sappho of Lesbos in both what pertains to mortals and in what pertains to gods, in short in Homer and in Hesiod, should never have heard of the “Miracle of the Beautiful City,”’ says Madeleine, in mock surprise.
‘Then Mademoiselle—as you say you can scarcely believe it—you show yourself to be a lady of but little faith!’ says Sappho, her eye lighted by a delicious gleam of raillery.
‘I must confess that the miracle Mademoiselle mentions has—if I may use the expression—escaped my memory too,’ says Théodamas.
‘And ours,’ say Doralise and Philoxène.
‘So this company of all companies has never heard of the Miracle of the Beautiful City!’ cries Madeleine. ‘Well, I will recount it to you.
‘Once upon a time, in a far barbarian country, there lived a great saint. Everything about her was a miracle—her eyes, her hands, her figure, and her wit. One night an angel appeared to her and said: (I will not yet tell you the saint’s name), “Take your lyre” (I forgot to mention that the saint’s performance on this instrument was also a miracle, and a furiously agreeable one), “Take your lyre, and go and play upon it in the wilderness.” And the saint obeyed the angel’s command, though the wilderness was filled with lions and tigers and every other ferocious beast. But when the saint began to play they turned into ... doves and linnets.’ A tiny smile of comprehension begins to play round the eyes of the company. Madeleine goes on, quite gravely:—
‘But that was only a baby miracle beside that which followed. As the saint played, out of the earth began to spring golden palaces, surrounded by delicious gardens, towers of porphyry, magnificent temples, in short, all the agreeable monuments that go to the making of a great city, and of which, as a rule, Time is the only building contractor. But, in a few minutes, this great Saint built it merely by playing on her lyre. Madame, the city’s name was Pretty Wit, and the Saint’s name was ... can the company tell me?’ and she looks roguishly round.
‘It is a name of five letters, and its first letter is S and its last O,’ says Théodamas, with a smile.