And her only garment now being the cambric under-gown, she threw herself back on the lounging chair where Violette was reclining, buttoning up her dressing gown to protect herself from the attacks of the Countess.

“Well, what does this mean, you little rebel?” cried the Countess. “Have you by chance taken it into your head to resist?”

“Resist whom?”

“Me, of course.”

“Why should I resist you? You do not wish to hurt me, I suppose?”

“No, just the reverse,” said the Countess, divesting her of her dressing gown. “No; I wish to give you pleasure, but then you must allow me to do all I please.”

“But then… madame la comtesse?”

“Odette, you mean. Call me Odette, I tell you!”

“But when you are…”

“Thou! not you!”

“Well; when thou art… Oh! I shall never dare to do so.”

“Thou!… Thou! I say,” she repeated. “Are we not good friends?”

“Well, yes. That is to say, I am a poor working girl and you are a great lady.”

“Well! What should that great lady do to be forgiven for being a Countess, you proud little thing? Behold, I am at your knees. Are you satisfied?”

Indeed, the countess went down on her knees before Violette, who sat in a chair, and gently lifted her chemise in order to gaze upon certain secret charms of which she had caught a glimpse when trying on the drawers. Her eager eyes peered into the arch which her two hands formed in the cambric.

“Oh! what lovely treasures!” she murmured. “How well made! What round thighs! What a soft skin! What marble was it that you were carved out of, dear Hebe? In Paros or Carrara? And this little black dot! Come, let me kiss it!”

She imprinted her lips on it.

“What a nice perfume! Why you little coquette, it is Eau de Portugal!”

“That is Christian's favourite scent.”

“Christian? Who's that, I should like to know?”