And Fatou, deeply injured, “Ah, Tjean! You not say that, my white man. First a monkey not knowing how to talk—and I knowing very well.” Thereupon Fritz Muller burst out laughing—and then Jean followed his example, especially when he saw the dignified, ceremonious manner that Fatou endeavoured to assume by way of protest against these uncomplimentary conclusions. “In any case, a very pretty little monkey,” said Muller, who had a great admiration for Fatou’s good looks. (He had lived a long time in the negro realm, and was a good judge of the pretty girls of the Soudan.) “A very pretty little monkey! If all those in the woods of Galam were like her, one might grow accustomed to this accursed country, which assuredly has never been visited by the good God.” IX A white hall, all open to the evening wind, two hanging lamps around which flutter large ephemerae dazzled by the flame; an uproarious company of men in red uniforms—coal-black kitchen wenches bustling around—a great supper party of spahis. It has been a day of festivities—military festivities—a review at the barracks, races on desert-bred horses, camel races, races of oxen with riders, pirogue races—all the usual programme of a festal day in a little provincial town, with the addition of strange Nubian local colour. All the fit men of the garrison, sailors, spahis, riflemen, were to be seen parading the streets in uniform; mulattos, men and women in gala dress; the ancient Signard ladies of Senegal—the half-bred aristocracy, erect and dignified with their high headdresses of cotton foulard, and their two corkscrew curls in the mode of 1820—and the young Signard ladies in dresses of the fashion of to-day, yet in spite of this, odd, faded, suggestive, somehow of the coast of Africa. Besides these, there were two or three white women in dainty gowns, and behind them, as if to serve as a foil, a crowd of negroes, decked with grigris and barbaric ornaments—all Guet n’dar in holiday dress. All the animation and life that St Louis could produce; all the population the old colony could muster in its dead-alive streets—all were out-of-doors for a single day—ready to return on the morrow to their listless existence in those silent houses, each in its coat of white limewash, like a corpse in a winding sheet. And the spahis who have paraded by order all day long on the Place du Gouvernement are roused to a high state of excitement by this unusual stir. This evening they are celebrating the award of promotions and decorations brought by the last mail from France; and Jean, who as a rule holds himself a little aloof, is present at this supper party, which is a regimental affair. The black kitchen wenches are kept very busy waiting on the spahis, not because the spahis have eaten a great deal, but because they have had a prodigious quantity to drink, and are all intoxicated.