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.

We passed through interminable corridors.  I was disturbed, but the warm water had given me a certain feeling of detachment.  And above all, more than I wished to admit, I had a growing sense of lively curiosity.  If, at that moment, someone had offered to lead me back to the route across the white plain near Shikh-Salah, would I have accepted?  Hardly.

I tried to feel ashamed of my curiosity.  I thought of Maillefeu.

“He, too, followed this corridor.  And now he is down there, in the red marble hall.”

I had no time to linger over this reminiscence.  I was suddenly bowled over, thrown to the ground, as if by a sort of meteor.  The corridor was dark; I could see nothing.  I heard only a mocking growl.

The white Targa had flattened himself back against the wall.

“Good,” I mumbled, picking myself up, “the deviltries are beginning.”

We continued on our way.  A glow different from that of the rose night lights soon began to light up the corridor.

We reached a high bronze door, in which a strange lacy design had been cut in filigree.  A clear gong sounded, and the double doors opened part way.  The Targa remained in the corridor, closing the doors after me.