nd their families had houses there, and perhaps many were
shopkeepers down in the Condamine, where the cheap hotels and
lodging-houses were. Few of those hotels, or the more luxurious ones at
Monte Carlo itself, would exist if it were not for the Casino, and the
whole Riviera would be less prosperous. But Vanno was persuaded that he
cared nothing for the gold of the dragon.

Once before, when he was almost a boy, he had come here with his brother
Angelo for a few days. They had gone to see the Prince, whose ancient
family, the Grimaldis, was older and more important even than the house
of Rienzi. Vanno had promised Angelo that he would call at the palace
this time, and he decided to do so formally in the afternoon; the
morning he resolved to spend in walking up to La Turbie and down again.
The exercise would clear his brain; and he fancied that he remembered
the way well enough to find it again without asking directions.

There was something else he might do also, if there were time. A priest
whom, as a boy, he had known well at Monte Della Robbia was now cure at
Roquebrune. They corresponded, and in coming to the Riviera, Vanno had
planned to look him up. He was in a mood to want a full day's programme.

In a few moments' walking he left Monte Carlo behind and came out upon
the open hillside, where, above him, he saw the path leading skyward
like an interminable staircase. Often as he mounted, bareheaded, his hat
in his hand, he caught himself mentally trespassing on forbidden ground,
thinking of his lost Giulietta, and wondering what she had been doing,
every day and hour of her life since she was a child. He had never felt
this pressing, insistent curiosity about any human being before. His
thoughts followed the girl everywhere, wherever she might be; and
something--the same Something which refused to disbelieve in her--seemed
to know where she was at that moment, even how she looked, and what was
in her soul, though his outer intelligence could see nothing. That
rebellious Something longed to turn back toward Monte Carlo, to keep
near her and guard her. It cried out strongly to do this, but Vanno
would not listen. He sang to himself as he walked up the mule path among
olive trees; and peasants coming down from the mountains, their nailed
boots rattling on the cobblestones, were singing, too, strange wordless
songs without tune, songs neither French nor Italian, but with a wild
eastern lilt leaping out of their mono