The first face the painter saw was that of the Comte de Landa. He was promenading around like a Roman wrestler, proud of his enormous chest and of his great arms crossed over it. A frequenter of the hot baths, he felt when there like an admired actor on the stage, and he criticised like an expert the muscles of all the strong men in Paris. “Good-morning, Bertin,” said he. They shook hands; then Landa continued: “Splendid weather for sweating!” “Yes, magnificent.” “Have you seen Rocdiane? He is down there. I was at his house just as he was getting out of bed. Oh, look at that anatomy!” A little gentleman was passing, bow-legged, with thin arms and flanks, the sight of whom caused the two old models of human vigor to smile disdainfully. Rocdiane approached them, having perceived the painter. They sat down on a long marble table and began to chat quite as if they were in a drawing-room. The attendants moved about, offering drinks. One could hear the clapping of the masseurs' hands on bare flesh and the sudden flow of the shower-baths. A continuous pattering of water, coming from all corners of the great amphitheater, filled it also with a sound like rain. At every instant some newcomer saluted the three friends, or approached them to shake hands. Among them were the big Duke of Harrison, the little Prince Epilati, Baron Flach, and others. Suddenly Rocdiane said: “How are you, Farandal?” The Marquis entered, his hands on his hips, with the easy air of well-made men, who never feel embarrassed at anything. “He is a gladiator, that chap!” Landa murmured. Rocdiane resumed, turning toward Bertin: “Is it true that he is to marry the daughter of your friend?” “I think so,” said the painter. But the question, before that man, in that place, gave to Olivier's heart a frightful shock of despair and revolt. The horror of all the realities he had foreseen appeared to him for a second with such acuteness that he struggled an instant or so against an animal-like desire to fling himself on Farandal. He arose. “I am tired,” said he. “I am going to the massage now.” An Arab was passing. “Ahmed, are you at liberty?” “Yes, Monsieur Bertin.” And he went away quickly in order to avoid shaking hands with Farandal, who was approaching slowly in making the rounds of the Hammam. He remained barely a quarter of an hour in the large quiet resting-room, in the center of a row of cells containing the beds, with a _parterre_ of African plants and a little fountain in the center. He had a feeling of being pursued, menaced, that the Marquis would join him, and that he should be compelled, with extended hand, to treat him as a friend, when he longed to kill him. He soon found himself again on the Boulevard, covered with dead leaves. They fell no more, the last ones having been detached by a long blast of wind. Their red and yellow carpet shivered, stirred, undulated from one sidewalk to another, blown by puffs of the rising wind.