“I cannot see him very well. His back is turned to me.”
“Know you not? he is the sculptor to whom the queen offered herself for a model when he carved the Aphrodite in the temple.”
“They say he is the royal lover. They say he is the master of Egypt.”
“And he is as beautiful as Apollo.”
“Ah! he has turned round. I am very glad that I came. I shall say that I have seen him. I have heard so much about him. It seems that no woman has ever resisted him. He has had many love adventures, has he not? How is it that the queen has not heard of them?”
“The queen knows of them as well as we do. She loves him too much to speak of them. She is afraid of his returning to Rhodes, to his master, Pherecrates. He is as powerful as she is, and it is she who desired him.”
“He does not look happy. Why does he look so sad? I think I should be happy if I were in his place. I should like to be he, were it only for an evening.”
The sun had set. The women gazed at this man, their common dream. He, without appearing to be conscious of the stir he created, remained leaning over the parapet, listening to the flute-girls.
The little musicians made another collection; then, they softly threw their light flutes over their backs. The singing-girl placed her arms round their necks and all three returned to the town.
At night-fall, the other women went back into immense Alexandria in little groups, and the herd of men followed them; but all turned round as they walked, and looked at Demetrios.