“Bibi, comme tu es bête! Come in here, for I can’t hear you where you are now. Nous ferons bombance, n’est-ce pas?”
Entering her room, I found her lolling under a pink satin coverlet, and revealing a pair of swarthy, wonderfully healthy shoulders—shoulders such as one sees in dreams—shoulders covered over with a white cambric nightgown which, trimmed with lace, stood out, in striking relief, against the darkness of her skin.
“Mon fils, as-tu du cœur?” she cried when she saw me, and then giggled. Her laugh had always been a very cheerful one, and at times it even sounded sincere.
“Tout autre—” I began, paraphrasing Corneille.
“See here,” she prattled on. “Please search for my stockings, and help me to dress. Aussi, si tu n’es pas trop bête je te prends à Paris. I am just off, let me tell you.”
“This moment?”
“In half an hour.”
True enough, everything stood ready-packed—trunks, portmanteaux, and all. Coffee had long been served.
“Eh bien, tu verras Paris. Dis donc, qu’est-ce que c’est qu’un ‘utchitel’? Tu étais bien bête quand tu étais ‘utchitel.’ Where are my stockings? Please help me to dress.”
And she lifted up a really ravishing foot—small, swarthy, and not misshapen like the majority of feet which look dainty only in bottines. I laughed, and started to draw on to the foot a silk stocking, while Mlle. Blanche sat on the edge of the bed and chattered.