“Poor girls! To think that I laughed! You are better than we are . . . Certainly I will help you. Go and join your friend and wait for me, I am coming.”
Turning to the four women . . .
“Go to my house,” he said, “by the street of the Potters. I shall be there in a short time. Do not follow me.”
Rhodis was still sitting in front of the corpse. When she saw Timon coming, she implored him:
“Do not tell! We have stolen it to save her shade. Keep our secret, we will love you, Timon.”
“Have no fears,” said the young man.
He took the body under the shoulders and Myrto took it under the knees, and they walked on in silence, with Rhodis tottering along behind.
Timon said not a word. For the second time in two days, human passion had carried off one of the transitory guests of his bed, and he marvelled at the unreason that drove people out of the enchanted road that leads to perfect happiness.
“Impassivity,” he thought, “indifference, quietude, voluptuous serenity! who amongst men will appreciate you? We fight, we struggle, we hope, when one thing only is worth having: namely, to extract from the fleeting moment all the joys it is capable of affording, and to leave one’s bed as little as possible.”
They reached the gate of the ruined necropolis.