A bou-bou of white muslin now covered her rounded breasts, as is the custom with young girls who have come to marriageable age. A strong scent of musk and soumaré hung about her.
Her head no longer displayed its five stiff little tails. She was letting her hair grow, and would presently put herself into the skilful hands of the hairdressers, who would pile up her locks into the complicated erection which is proper to the head of an African woman.
At present her hair was still too short, and it stood out in a dishevelled woolly mass, which gave an entirely new character to her face. Formerly pleasing but comical, it had now become attractive and quaint, almost charming.
She was a mixture of young girl, child, and little black devil—a very odd little person.
“The child is pretty, Peyral, you know,” said the spahis smiling.
Jean had noticed, certainly, that she was pretty, but at present this fact interested him very little. He tried to resume quietly his former mode of life, his walks on the beach, and his long expeditions into the country.
The quiet, contemplative months spent in camp had done him good. He had almost regained his moral equilibrium. His memories of his aged parents and of his young betrothed, trustfully waiting for him at home in their village, held him once more with their wholesome charm and influence.
He had done with childish folly and bravado, and now he could not understand how it was that Dame Virginie had come to number him among her clients. He had vowed not only to give up absinthe, but likewise to remain faithful to his betrothed until the blissful day of their marriage.
XXVIII
The air was charged with sluggish exhalations, seething with the vital odours and scents of young, growing things. Nature was hastening to carry out her vast plans of procreation.