"A huge black woman more than half naked, with due respect to you, sir. She was all in copper, and M. de Peyrehorade told us it was an idol of pagan times—the time of Charlemagne."
"I see what it is—some virgin or other in bronze from a destroyed convent."
"A virgin! Had it been one I should have recognized it. It is an idol, I tell you; you can see it in her look. She fixes you with her great white eyes—one might say she stares at you. One lowers one's eyes, yes, indeed, one does, on looking at her."
"White eyes? Doubtless they are set in the bronze. Perhaps it is some Roman statue."
"Roman! That's it. M. de Peyrehorade says it is Roman. Oh! I see you are an erudite like himself."
"Is she complete, well preserved?"
"Yes, sir, she lacks nothing. It is a handsomer statue and better finished than the bust of Louis Philippe in colored plaster which is in the town-hall. But with all that the face of the idol does not please me. She has a wicked expression —and, what is more, she is wicked."
"Wicked! what has she done to you?"
"Nothing to me exactly; but wait a minute. We had gotten down on all fours to stand her upright, and M. de Peyrehorade was also pulling on the rope, though he has not much more strength than a chicken. With much trouble we got her up straight. I reached for a broken tile to support her, when if she doesn't tumble over backward all in a heap. I said, 'Take care,' but not quick enough, for Jean did not have time to draw away his leg—"
"And it was hurt?"