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“I’m coming. I’m coming.”

The door was opened and there appeared a mulattress in battered shoes, followed by three poodle dogs, who barked furiously.

“Hush, Léon! Hush Morito!” cried the servant in a very languid tone. “Come in. Come in.”

Manuel and Mingote walked into a stifling room, which had a window that looked upon the patio. The walls of the room, from a certain height, were almost covered with women’s clothes that formed a sort of wainscoting all around it. From the shutter-bolt of the window was suspended a low cut sleeveless chemise with lace edging and bows of faded blue, which displayed cynically a dark blood-stain.

“Wait a moment. The lady is dressing,” requested the mulattress.

Within a short while she reappeared and asked them to step into the study.

The baroness, a blonde woman attired in a bright gown, was reclining upon a sofa in an attitude of intense languor and desolation.

“Here again, Mingote?”

“Yes, madame. Again.”

“Have a seat, gentlemen.”

The place was a cramped, ill-lighted room crowded with far more furniture than it could easily accommodate. Within a short space were heaped together an old console with a mantle-clock upon it; several crumpled armchairs, upon which the silk, once upon a time red, had turned violet through the action of the sun; two large oil portraits, and a bevelled mirror with a cracked surface.