The sun's rays, direct, torrid, beat mercilessly on the town; the sand is dazzling, 
the sea shimmers. The stupefied population collapses, defeated, and seeks refuge
in siesta, a siesta that is like a kind of delectable death in which the sleeper, half 
awake, savors the pleasure of his own annihilation.

   Meanwhile, Dorothea, as strong and proud as the sun, saunters down the empty 
street; at this infernal hour, under the immense blue sky, she is the only living 
creature to be seen, a shiny black spot against the blinding light.

   She saunters, gently balancing her slender torso on her full hips. Her clinging 
silk dress, pale pink in color, contrasts vividly with the darkness of her skin and 
closely molds her long, narrow waist, her hollow back and her pointed breasts. 
And the sunlight, filtering through her red parasol, casts a crimson rouge on her 
dusky cheeks.

   The weight of her enormous mass of hair, so black it appears bluish, draws 
back her delicate head and gives her a lazy yet triumphant air. Heavy earrings 
babble secrets in her dainty ears.

   Now and then, a sea breeze lifts a corner of her flowing skirt, revealing a 
superb, lustrous leg, and her foot, like the feet of the marble goddesses 
that Europe has imprisoned in its museums, faithfully impresses its shape in the fine 
sand. For Dorothea is so prodigiously coquettish that the pleasure of being 
admired easily wins out over her pride in being free, and though she is no longer 
a slave, she continues still to go shoeless.

   And so she saunters, harmoniously, happy to be alive and smiling a secret 
smile, as if looking in a mirror far off in space that reflects her bearing and her 
beauty. At an hour when even the dogs groan with pain under the sun's tormenting 
rays, what powerful motive brings her out like this, indolent Dorothea, as beautiful 
and cool as bronze?

   Why has she left the shelter of her little hut, so prettily arranged with flowers 
and mats of straw, making such a perfect boudoir at so small a cost; where she 
takes so much pleasure in combing her hair, in smoking, in fanning herself 
with her huge plumed fans as she admires herself in the mirror; while the sea, 
pounding against the shore not a hundred paces away, provides a strong and rhythmic accompaniment to her vague reveries, and a stew of crabs and rice and saffron, 
cooking in an iron pot in her little yard, gives off savory aromas that whet her 
appetite?

   Perhaps she has a rendezvous with some young officer who, on a distant beach, 
has heard his comrades talking of the famous Dorothea. No doubt she will plead 
with him, the simple creature, to describe the Opera Ball for her, and will ask him 
if one can go barefoot to it, like at the Sunday dances here where even the old 
Kaffir women get drunk and frenzied with joy; and also if the beautiful Parisian 
ladies are all more beautiful than she.

   Dorothea is admired by everyone, and pampered, and she would be perfectly 
happy if only she did not have to put away, centime by centime, enough money to 
buy freedom for her little sister, who is just eleven, but already blossoming, and so 
lovely! She will doubtless succeed, good Dorothea, for the child's owner is much 
too greedy to appreciate any other beauty than that of the franc!