Little Poems in Prose

XXXVIII WHICH IS THE TRUE ONE? I ONCE knew a girl called Benedicta, who filled the atmosphere with the ideal, whose eyes shed forth the desire of greatness, beauty, glory, all that which makes a man be- lieve in immortality. But this miraculous girl was too lovely to live long, and some days after I had become acquainted with her she died. It was I myself that buried her, one day when the Spring swung its thurible even within cemeteries. It was I that buried her, well shut up into a bier of perfumed wood, incorruptible as are the cof- fers of India. And as my eyes remained fastened on the place wherein was buried my treasure, I saw (on a sudden) a little person who resembled the dead woman strangely; who, stamping on the fresh earth with a strange and hysterical violence, shouted with laughter, and said, “I am the real Benedicta, and a rare bitch I am! and for the punishment of your folly and blind- ness you shall love me all the same.” I, furi-