This was one of those days of transition which mark the end of one season and the beginning of another, which have a savor or a special sadness—­the sadness of the death-struggle or the savor of rising sap.

In crossing the threshold of the Moorish Baths, the thought of the heat that would soon penetrate his flesh after his walk in the cold air gave a feeling of satisfaction to Olivier’s sad heart.

He undressed quickly, wrapping around his body the light scarf the attendant handed to him, and disappeared behind the padded door open before him.

A warm, oppressive breath, which seemed to come from a distant furnace, made him pant as if he needed air while traversing a Moorish gallery lighted by two Oriental lanterns.  Then a negro with woolly head, attired only in a girdle, with shining body and muscular limbs, ran before him to raise a curtain at the other end; and Bertin entered the large hot-air room, round, high-studded, silent, almost as mystic as a temple.  Daylight fell from above through a cupola and through trefoils of colored glass into the immense circular room, with paved floor and walls covered with pottery decorated after the Arab fashion.

Men of all ages, almost naked, walked slowly about, grave and silent; others were seated on marble benches, with arms crossed; others still chatted in low tones.

The burning air made one pant at the very entrance.  There was, within that stifling and decorated circular room, where human flesh was heated, where black and yellow attendants with copper-colored legs moved about, something antique and mysterious.

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.