es.

The burning air made one pant at the very entrance. There was, within
that stifling and decorated circular room, where human flesh was heated,
where black and yellow attendants with copper-colored legs moved about,
something antique and mysterious.

The first face the painter saw was that of the Comte de Landa. He was
promenading around like a Roman wrestler, proud of his enormous chest
and of his great arms crossed over it. A frequenter of the hot baths,
he felt when there like an admired actor on the stage, and he criticised
like an expert the muscles of all the strong men in Paris.

"Good-morning, Bertin," said he.

They shook hands; then Landa continued: "Splendid weather for sweating!"

"Yes, magnificent."

"Have you seen Rocdiane? He is down there. I was at his house just as he
was getting out of bed. Oh, look at that anatomy!"

A little gentleman was passing, bow-legged, with thin arms and flanks,
the sight of whom caused the two old models of human vigor to smile
disdainfully.

Rocdiane approached them, having perceived the painter. They sat down
on a long marble table and began to chat quite as if they were in a
drawing-room. The attendants moved about, offering drinks. One could
hear the clapping of the masseurs' hands on bare flesh and the sudden
flow of the shower-baths. A continuous pattering of water, coming from
all corners of the great amphitheater, filled it also with a sound like
rain.

At every instant some newcomer saluted the three friends, or approached
them to shake hands. Among them were the big Duke of Harrison, the
little Prince Epilati, Baron Flach, and others.

Suddenly Rocdiane said: "How are you, Farandal?"

The Marquis entered, his hands on his hips, with the easy air of
well-made men, who never feel embarrassed at anything.

"He is a gladiator, that chap!" Landa murmured.

Rocdiane resumed, turning toward Bertin: "Is it true that he is to marry
the daughter of your friend?"

"I think so," said the painter.

But the question, before that man, in that place, gave to Olivier's
heart a frightful shock of despair and revolt. The horror of all
the realities he had foreseen appeared to him for a second with such
acuteness that he struggled an instant or so against an animal-like
desire to fling himself on Farandal.

He arose.

"I am tired," said he. "I am going to the massage now."

An Arab was passing.

"Ahmed, are you at liberty?"

"Yes, Monsieur Bertin."

And