“Thy navel is a deep pit in a desert of red sand, and thy belly a young kid lying on its mother’s breast.”
“My navel is a round pearl on an inverted cup, and the curve of my belly is the clear crescent of Phœbe in the forests.”
There was a silence. The slave raised her hands and bowed to the ground.
The courtesan proceeded:
“It is like a purple flower, full of perfumes and honey.”
“It is like a sea-serpent, soft and living, open at night.”
“It is the humid grotto, the ever-warm lodging, the Refuge where man reposes from his march to death.”
The prostrate one murmured very low: “It is appalling. It is the face of Medusa.”