That instant was to decide her whole life. Her last hope was either to vanish or be realised. The fête continued all around her.
An iris wreath, thrown from somewhere or other, fell upon her lips. A man broke a little phial of perfume over her hair. It ran down too quickly and wetted her shoulders. The splashes of wine from a full tankard into which somebody had thrown a pomegranate spotted her silk tunic and penetrated to the skin. She bore all the traces of the orgie magnificently.
The slave who had gone out did not return.
Chrysis remained stone-pale, motionless as a sculptured goddess. The rhythmic and monotonous wail of a woman in travail of love not far away marked the passage of time for her. It seemed to her that this woman had been moaning thus since the night before. She could have twisted something, broken her fingers, shouted.
At last Selene came back, empty-handed.
“The mirror?” asked Bacchis.
“It . . . It has gone . . . it . . . has been . . . stolen,” stammered the servant.
Bacchis uttered a cry so piercing that all ceased speaking, and a frightful silence brusquely interrupted the tumult.
Men and women crowded round her from all parts of the vast chamber, leaving a little space in the centre which was occupied by the distracted Bacchis and the kneeling slave.
“What! What!” she shrieked.