“It doesn’t matter to me,” replied Blanche, “I’ve a right to say it’s wonderful because. . . I don’t wear one myself.”

And she pulled up her skirt to exhibit her black socks with pink stitching; pulling it, indeed, much higher than was necessary.

“So you wear socks,” said Modeste. “The. . .savage, I don’t know what he’s wearing, it looks like a sewerman’s boots with spikes.

“Here we go,” said Blanche. “I wasn’t thinking about him, but joking apart, he’s a terribly good-looking man.”

“I find him too painted up,” said Virginie. “He needs to be sent to the laundry.”

“What a well-developed sense of cleanliness she has!” said Herminie. “You’ll have your chance, dear madam, to remove his pigments in a little while.”

“You don’t send Negroes to the laundry,” said Eupure, going one better.

“What do you mean, in a little while? After you,” said Virginie, “and if there’s anything left! According to what the general told me, we’ll be ‘put through’ in alphabetical order.”

“If there’s anything left of what?” said Adèle. “His paint?”

“I go second,” stated Blanche, “but perhaps even that will be a sinecure.”

“The idea’s a perfect scream, but it will never work,” said Irène.

“Let’s congratulate the first ‘bride,’” said all six, making deep curtsies to Adèle.

There was a rustling sound on the landing.

“Sssh, someone’s coming upstairs,” murmured Adèle.

“It must be he,” said Virginie. “It’s a good thing he’s thawing out, he only opened his mouth to eat.”

“He has nice teeth, he probably only chews broken glass as a rule,” said Herminie.

“Ground glass, if he does what they say,” corrected Irène.

“Ssh!” said Adèle again.

The same light and rapid step that had announced the Indian’s coming, even lighter and more rapid this time, drew near. Something like a nudity or a silken garment brushed against the door.

“His bearskin sounds like a dress,” said Blanche.

“They drape themselves like women, in his country. . .”

“But more décolleté,” whispered some voices.

Someone fumbled with the lock. The women were silent.

The door did not open. The footsteps went downstairs again. A clicking of heels was heard, and a burst of laughter, strangely silvery, grew fainter.

“What’s it mean?” asked one of the women. “He’s not very polite, that savage.”

“He’s shy. . . Hey, Joe! You’re forgetting your bearskin!”

“He doesn’t know how to behave,” explained Virginie, who prided herself on her upbringing.

“Still, he paid up like an African king,” said another, “or else his keeper paid up for him.”

“How horrible!” said several. “But it’s true, he was nice.”

“Perhaps he was coming to call us: it’ll soon be midnight. Shall we go downstairs, ladies?”

“Yes, let’s!” they all said, taking up their hats which they had thrown onto the furniture.