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-