The sun pours down upon the city with its direct and terrible light;
the sand is dazzling, and the sea glistens. The stupefied world sinks
cowardly down and holds siesta, a siesta which is a sort of delightful
death, in which the sleeper, half-awake, enjoys the voluptuousness of
his annihilation.
None the less, Dorothea, strong and proud as the sun, advances along
the deserted street, alone animated at that hour, under the immense
blue sky, forming a startling black spot against the light.
She advances, lightly, balancing her slender trunk upon her so large
hips. Her close-fitting silk dress, of a clear, roseate fashion, stands
out vividly against the darkness of her skin and is exactly molded to
her long figure, her rounded back and her pointed throat.
Her red parasol, sifting the light, throws over her dark face the
bloody disguise of its reflection.
The weight of her enormous, blue-black hair draws back her delicate
head and gives her a triumphant, indolent bearing. Heavy pendants
tinkle quietly at her delicate ears.
From time to time the sea-breeze lifts the hem of her flowing skirt and
reveals her shining, superb limbs; and her foot, a match for the feet
of the marble goddesses whom Europe locks in its museums, faithfully
imprints its form in the fine sand. For Dorothea is such a wondrous
coquette, that the pleasure of being admired overcomes the pride of the
enfranchised, and, although she is free, she walks without shoes.
She advances thus, harmoniously, glad to be alive, smiling an open
smile; as if she saw, far off in space, a mirror reflecting her walk
and her beauty.
At the hour when dogs moan with pain under the tormenting sun, what
powerful motive can thus draw forth the indolent Dorothea, lovely, and
cold as bronze?
Why had she left her little cabin, so coquettishly adorned, the flowers
and mats of which make at so little cost a perfect boudoir; where she
takes such delight in combing herself, in smoking, in being fanned, or
in regarding herself in the mirror with its great fans of plumes; while
the sea, which strikes the shore a hundred steps away, shapes to her
formless reveries a mighty and monotonous accompaniment, and while the
iron pot, in which a ragout of crabs with saffron and rice is cooking,
sends after her, from the courtyard, its stimulating perfumes?
Perhaps she has a rendezvous with some young officer, who, on far
distant shores, heard his comrades talk of the renowned Dorothea.
Infallibly she will beg him, simple creature, to describe to her the
Bal de l'Opéra, and will ask him if one can go there barefoot, as to
the Sunday dances, where the old Kaffir women themselves get drunk and
mad with joy; and then, too, whether the lovely ladies of Paris are all
lovelier than she.
Dorothea is admired and pampered by all, and she would be perfectly
happy if she were not obliged to amass piastre on piastre to buy back
her little sister, who is now fully eleven, and who is already mature,
and so lovely! She will doubtless succeed, the good Dorothea; the
child's master is so miserly, too miserly to understand another beauty
than that of gold.