“And this number can be multiplied to almost any extent by artificial insemination,” continued the doctor, getting excited. “And that even without the presence of. . .”

“The author whose editor you are, dear doctor!” jested some voices.

“I should like to reserve a special edition,” said the cynical voice of Henriette Cyne, who had come in, no one knew how.

The “Indian,” in reply to all these speeches, gestured with a tranquil motion of his head:

“No.”

“What’s he saying?” muttered the general. “That he can’t have children? Well who can, then?”

The “Indian,” still impassive and taciturn, cast a glance about the room, raised his index finger and placed it on the constellated chest of Saint-Jurieu.

“It’s always those who can’t who try,” interpreted Henriette Cyne philosophically.

And the “Indian” slipped off, fearful that Ellen’s incognito might not be respected. He ran into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Scarcely had he entered than a supple body, still warm from his embrace, wrapped itself about him and pushed him onto the bed of fur.

And the young woman’s breath murmured, in a kiss that made his ears buzz:

“At last we’re through with the betting to please. . . Mr. Theophrastus! Now let’s think of ourselves. We haven’t yet made love. . . for pleasure!”

She had double-bolted the door.

Suddenly, near the ceiling, a windowpane shattered, and the glass showered down on the rug.

O Sweetest Nightingale

O SWEETEST NIGHTINGALE

It was at that moment that the women broke through the glass panel. The fragments tinkled as they began to fall, and then were absorbed by the hair of the rug which swallowed up the sound, as when a burst of laughter, conscious of its own false note, interrupts itself.

The women did not try to laugh right off.

Finally Virginie said: “Hey, you lovers!”

“Haven’t you finished yet, since the day before yesterday?” asked Irène.

“They say themselves that they haven’t begun yet,” laughed Eupure sardonically.

“Were you waiting for us?” said Modeste.

They were bunched together behind the iron frame, but André and Ellen could only see the upper parts of their faces.

“Isn’t there some way to keep them quiet?” growled the Supermale. “Hide yourself,” he ordered Ellen.

“I don’t care if they see us, so long as all they show you is their faces,” said Ellen. “I wear my mask a different way.”

Like a Majesty proudly opening the unique casket containing the royal diamonds, she pulled open the Indian’s arms which, encircling her, were concealing a little of her shoulders.

Then she made the gesture that is permitted only to sovereigns: she knelt before the man.

Only those girls who are born to be servants think themselves obliged to redeem their services by increasing their fees.