Entering her room, I found her lolling under a pink satin coverlet, and revealing a pair of swarthy, wonderfully healthy shoulders⁠—shoulders such as one sees in dreams⁠—shoulders covered over with a white cambric nightgown which, trimmed with lace, stood out, in striking relief, against the darkness of her skin.

“ Mon fils, as-tu du cœur? ” she cried when she saw me, and then giggled. Her laugh had always been a very cheerful one, and at times it even sounded sincere.

“ Tout autre⁠— ” I began, paraphrasing Corneille.

“See here,” she prattled on. “Please search for my stockings, and help me to dress. Aussi, si tu n’es pas trop bête je te prends à Paris. I am just off, let me tell you.”

“This moment?”