I know a woman who takes mouse baths. It is true that they are white mice, that she is a singer, and that she only does so before going off to sing Thais.
While servitors are hastening supper for the opera-goers under the potted palms of neighboring eating-places, Sibylle Mauriac heaves her ample body from the chaise lounge on which it has been reposing all day. The sound of a gong surrounds her with orphan girls, nine in all, whom she has chosen specifically for their beautiful eyes, their general air of ill health, and the delicacy of their hands. A tinkle of laughter resounds, despite the thickness of the curtains, when Mauriac announces that all should be placed in readiness for her bath.