But now, as all rest in silence, these gods and goddesses, now rises Zeus from his golden throne and bows to both sides, greeting.

“At the table of the gods must be enthroned Truth, the purest, most chaste of all the goddesses, and at her side the wisest, most puissant Genius, the Genius of Silence!” calls out Zeus, with far-resounding voice.  “Do you admit that, ye gods and goddesses?”

“We admit it!” call out all in exulting chorus.

“You gods, swear by all that is sacred to you in heaven and upon earth that you will present this evening as a thank offering in sacrifice to the Genius of Silence!  That never will pass your lips what your eyes see, never will your eyes betray the memory that shall dwell within your hearts!”

“We swear it by all that is sacred in heaven and upon earth!” cry the gods.

“Ye goddesses all, ye have heard!” cries Zeus, the enthroned.  “Now do homage to Truth, as she to the Genius of Silence!  Away with falsehood and deceit!  Away with your masks!”

And the plump, wanton arms of the goddesses are raised, and the rosy-fingered hands tear the silvery veils from their heads and cast them triumphantly behind them, and triumphantly the gods greet the beaming countenances of the goddesses, their sparkling eyes and rosy lips, the haunts of sweet, seductive smiles.

“Long live the gods and goddesses of Olympus!  No earthly memories cleave to them; if perchance they have borne earthly names, who knows it, who remembers it?  The present only belongs to the gods—­this hour is one of precious joy.”

Only those two sitting there at the table of the gods, arm linked in arm, only they remember, for not alone the present but the future, too, belongs to them.  The gods and goddesses call the two Venus and Endymion, but they, in tender whispers, call each other Ludovicka and Frederick.  No one disturbs himself about them, no one notices the happy pair, and they observe and regard no one, for they are thinking only of themselves.

“Oh, my beloved,” whispers the Prince, “how stale and insipid seems this fantastic feast to me to-night!  Once it would have charmed me, and would have been to me as embodied poesy.  But to-night it leaves me cold and empty, and I feel that the true and real contain in themselves the highest poetry.”

“You are indeed right, my Endymion,” says she softly—­“you are indeed right:  love is the highest poetry, and he who possesses the true and real needs not the fantastic semblance.  Still, this is a feast of gods; therefore let us enjoy it with glad hearts and swelling joy.  For is it not our wedding feast, and are not all these gods and goddesses unwittingly solemnizing the hymeneal of our love?  Rejoice then, my darling, rejoice and sing with the convivial, open your heart to the ravishing hour, drink into thy soul the delight and rapture of the gods!”