He got back just in time to deal with the seven women. The general had told them of the strange collaboration that was being asked of them and they were angry, and threatening to leave. Marcueil’s cold propriety rooted them to the spot, and a second distribution of bank notes restored their grace and their smiles. In a few brief words Marcueil announced that he had some urgent business to transact that would call him away from his guests for a few hours, at any rate during their supper, but that it didn’t matter and they were to make themselves at home.

The general asked for a more detailed explanation, but Marcueil’s steps were already receding in the hall. Bathybius was suspicious, without knowing why, and slipped out onto the steps. Marcueil was no longer there, but the doctor saw the car leave and heard it moving; he did not discover that, sitting in it, glorious, important, and alone, was the policeman.

Ten minutes later, eleven o’clock struck.

The butler opened the doors of the supper room.

The “Indian” had not yet appeared.

The seven women, taking the men’s arms, went in.

There was a slim redhead, with hair like copper, there were four brunettes, with either pale or golden complexions, and there were two blondes, one a little one, her ash-colored hair parted in the middle, the other a fat one, dimpled all over, and with an enamel complexion.

They answered to the modest Christian names – which were perhaps not their own, but they answered to them nonetheless! – of Adèle, Blanche, Eupure, Herminie, Irène, Modeste, and Virginie, which were followed by surnames too whimsical for it to be necessary to mention.

Three had come in high-necked dresses, the most hermetic that could be imagined, but which could be undone by a single clasp, and they were all naked underneath. Four, following the fashion of the day, were wearing fur-lined driving coats, and when they were taken off for them in the lobby the women appeared to be lace-embroidered rather than dressed; Herminie, in a tone calculated to overexcite the old men, called her diaphanous covering her undercoat.

Suddenly a rapid step, both languid and light, was heard in the corridor.

“It’s Marcueil,” said Bathybius. “He must have forgotten something, or decided not to go after all.”

“He’s come back in time,” said the general. “We’re still only ‘attacking.’ ”

The door opened and the “Indian” appeared.

Although they had been expecting him, there was an astonished silence.