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She is really indecently beautiful. She
was wearing a deep red silk peignoir, open at the throat,
unashamedly Parisian, which clung to every salient curve of her
figure. I wondered where, in the name of morality, she had
procured the garment. I learned later that it was the joy and
pride of Antoinette's existence; for once, in the days long ago,
when she was _femme de chambre_ to a luminary of the cafes
concerts, it had met around her waist. She had treasured the
cast-off finery of this burned-out star--she beamed in the
seventies--for all these years, and now its immortal devilry
transfigured Carlotta. She was also washed specklessly clean.
An aroma that no soap or artificial perfume could give disengaged
itself from her as she moved. Her gold-bronze hair was superbly
ordered. I noticed her arms which the sleeves of the gay garment
left bare to the elbows; the skin was like satin. "_Et sa peau!
On dirait du satin._" Confound Antoinette! She had the
audacity, too, to come down with bare feet. It was a revelation
of pink, undreamed-of loveliness in tus.


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