The girl lifted her arms heavenwards with a comical gesture:
“One must not strike an officer of the Dragoons,” she said. “Even with flowers.”
It was a joy to her to humiliate this young man. Before life humbled her—and she was quite determined to sacrifice everything, including love itself, to her luxurious ideas—she gave herself up entirely to the joy of being beautiful, coquettish, and daring.
Clément Dulaurens, arriving at this point, turned the conversation completely by questioning Marcel about the Malagasy names which afforded him so much amusement.
“Captain, do tell me, is Antanimbarindra Tsoksoraka a real name? Or is it just a journalist’s invention?”
“Not at all. It is a village.”
“And Ramazombazaha?”
“He was the chief of the Hovas at the beginning of the war. Our men to simplify matters called him Ramasse ton bazar.”
“There you see,” said Clément, “I’m the only one able to talk about the Madagascar expedition with you in technical terms. And I know some even more complicated names than these.”
During the whole scene Alice had kept nervously silent.