"After all, I am making a fool of myself," I said, giving up the case. "Such as he is, he is more agreeable than Le Mesge with his nightmarish erudition. But, on my word, what a recruit he would be for Hamman on the rue des Mathurins!" "Cigarette, sidi?" Without awaiting my reply, he placed a cigarette between my lips and lighted it, and resumed his task of polishing every inch of me. "He doesn't talk much, but he is obliging," I thought. And I sent a puff of smoke into his face. This pleasantry seemed to delight him immensely. He showed his pleasure by giving me great slaps. When he had dressed me down sufficiently, he took a little jar from the dressing-table and began to rub me with a rose-colored ointment. Weariness seemed to fly away from my rejuvenated muscles. A stroke on a copper gong. My masseur disappeared. A stunted old Negress entered, dressed in the most tawdry tinsel. She was talkative as a magpie, but at first I did not understand a word in the interminable string she unwound, while she took first my hands, then my feet, and polished the nails with determined grimaces. Another stroke on the gong. The old woman gave place to another Negro, grave, this time, and dressed all in white with a knitted skull cap on his oblong head. It was the barber, and a remarkably dexterous one. He quickly trimmed my hair, and, on my word, it was well done. Then, without asking me what style I preferred, he shaved me clean. I looked with pleasure at my face, once more visible. "Antinea must like the American type," I thought. "What an affront to the memory of her worthy grandfather, Neptune!" The gay Negro entered and placed a package on the divan. The barber disappeared. I was somewhat astonished to observe that the package, which my new valet opened carefully, contained a suit of white flannels exactly like those French officers wear in Algeria in summer. The wide trousers seemed made to my measure. The tunic fitted without a wrinkle, and my astonishment was unbounded at observing that it even had two gilt _galons_, the insignia of my rank, braided on the cuffs. For shoes, there were slippers of red Morocco leather, with gold ornaments. The underwear, all of silk, seemed to have come straight from the rue de la Paix. "Dinner was excellent," I murmured, looking at myself in the mirror with satisfaction. "The apartment is perfectly arranged. Yes, but...." I could not repress a shudder when I suddenly recalled that room of red marble. The clock struck half past four. Someone rapped gently on the door. The tall white Targa, who had brought me, appeared in the doorway. He stepped forward, touched me on the arm and signed for me to follow. Again I followed him.