"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.