Despair! Despair! Despair! There is no hope for
thee, wretched earthworm! No abode but the abysmal House of Satan!
Despair, and you will be welcomed! By a violent act of volition, set in
motion by his fingers fumbling a small gold cross he wore as a
watch-guard, the heady fumes of the orgy dissipated....
He was sitting facing the bowl, and over it with her calm, confidential
gaze was the figure of Lilith Whistler.
"Have I proved to you that perfume is the art of arts?" she demanded. He
rushed from the room and was shaking the grilled gate in the hallway
like a caged maniac, when with a pitying smile she released him. He
reached the street at a bound....
* * * * *
... "the evil of perfume, I repeat, was one against which the venerable
Fathers of the Church warned the faithful." The preacher's voice had
sagged to a monotone. Baldur lifted his eyes in dismay. Near him sat the
same woman, and she still stared at him as if to rebuke him for his
abstraction. About her hovered the odour of iris. Had it been only a
disturbing dream? Intoxicated by his escape from damnation, from the
last of the Deadly Arts, he bowed his head in grateful prayer.
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