Polyphemus saved the situation by jumping from the sofa and rubbing his back against her feet.
“Take the cat and tell him to kill it,” said I, “and go back to bed at once.”
I must have spoken roughly, for she regarded me with her great eyes full of innocent reproach.
“There, take up the cat and go,” I repeated. “You mustn’t come down here looking like that.”
“I thought I looked very pretty,” said Carlotta, moving a step nearer.
I sat down at my writing-table and fixed my eyes on my paper.
“You are like a Houri that has been sent away from Paradise for misbehaviour,” I said.
She laughed her curious cooing laugh.
“Hou! Seer Marcous is shocked!” And she ran, away, rubbing Polyphemus’s nose against her face.
I wonder if the Devil, having grown infirm, is mixing up his centuries and mistaking me for a mediaeval saint? Paphnutius for instance, who was visited by such a seductress. What is the legend? To get rid of her he burns off his hand, whereupon she falls dead. He prays and she returns to life and becomes a nun. No, Messer Diavolo, I am not Paphnutius. I will not maim myself, nor do I want Carlotta to fall dead; and I cannot pray and effect a pietistic resurrection. I am simply a fool of a modern man tempted out of his wits, who scarce knows what it is that he speaks or writes.