But in spite of the brightness of African nights, Marroca would insist on stripping herself almost naked in the clear rays of the moon; she did not trouble herself much about anybody who might see us, and often, in spite of my fears and entreaties, she uttered long, resounding cries, which made the dogs in the distance howl.

One night, when I was sleeping under the starry sky, she came and knelt down on my carpet, and putting her lips, which curled slightly, close to my face, she said:  “You must come and stay at my house.”  I did not understand her, and asked:  “What do you mean?” “Yes, when my husband has gone away; you must come and be with me.”

I could not help laughing, and said:  “Why, as you come here?” And she went on almost talking into my mouth, sending her hot breath into my throat, and moistening my moustache with her lips:  “I want it as a remembrance.”  Still I did not grasp her meaning; she put her arms round my neck.  “When you are no longer here, I shall think of it.”

I was touched and amused at the same time, and said:  “You must be mad.  I would much rather stop here.”

As a matter of fact, I have no liking for assignations under the conjugal roof; they are mouse-traps, in which the unwary are always caught.  But she begged and prayed, and even cried, and at last said:  “You shall see how I will love you there.”  Her wish seemed so strange that I could not explain it to myself; but on thinking it over, I thought I could discern a profound hatred for her husband, the secret vengeance of a woman who takes a pleasure in deceiving him, and who, moreover, wishes to deceive him in his own house.

“Is your husband very unkind to you?” I asked her.  She looked vexed, and said:  “Oh!  No, he is very kind.”  “But you are not fond of him?” She looked at me with astonishment in her large eyes.  “Indeed, I am very fond of him, very; but not so fond as I am of you.”

I could not understand it all, and while I was trying to get at her meaning, she pressed one of those kisses, whose power she knew so well, onto my lips, and whispered:  “But you will come, will you not?” I resisted, however, and so she got up immediately, and went away; nor did she come back for a week.  On the eighth day she came back, stopped gravely at the door of my room, and said:  “Are you coming to my house to-night? ...  If you refuse, I shall go away.”  Eight days is a very long time, my friend, and in Africa those eight days are as good as a month.  “Yes,” I said, and opened my arms, and she threw herself into them.

At night she waited for me in a neighboring street, and took me to their house, which was very small, and near the harbor.  I first of all went through the kitchen, where they had their meals, and then into a very tidy, whitewashed room, with photographs on the walls, and paper flowers under a glass case.  Marroca seemed beside herself with pleasure, and she jumped about, and said:  “There, you are at home, now.”  And I certainly acted as though I had been, though I felt rather embarrassed and somewhat uneasy.