ing for a
moment that he was pursued and that on going ashore he might have a
scuffle with the Italian police like a common pickpocket. But no, the
yacht was lying quietly at anchor, her crew were scrubbing the deck and
repainting the red mermaid that formed her figurehead as if some
personage of importance were expected on board. Paul had no curiosity to
ascertain who that personage might be; he simply rode across the marble
city and returned by the railway which runs from Genoa to Marseille,
following the coast; a marvellous road, where you pass from the inky
darkness of tunnels into the dazzling splendor of the blue sea, but so
narrow that accidents are very frequent.

At Savona the train stopped and the passengers were told that they could
go no farther, as one of the small bridges across the streams that rush
down from the mountain into the sea had broken down during the night.
They must wait for the engineer and workmen who had been summoned by
telegraph, stay there half a day perhaps. It was early morning. The
Italian town was just awaking in one of those hazy dawns which promise
extreme heat during the day. While the passengers scattered, seeking
refuge in hotels or restaurants, or wandering about the town, de Gery,
distressed by the delay, tried to find some way of avoiding the loss of
ten hours or more. He thought of poor Jansoulet, whose honor and whose
life might perhaps be saved by the money he was bringing, of his dear
Aline, the thought of whom had not left him once during his journey, any
more than the portrait she had given him. Suddenly it occurred to him to
hire one of the _calesinos_, four-horse vehicles which make the journey
from Genoa to Nice along the Italian Corniche, a fascinating drive often
taken by foreigners, lovers, and gamblers who have been lucky at Monaco.
The driver agreed to be at Nice early; but even though he should reach
there no sooner than by waiting for the train, the impatient traveller
felt an immense longing to be relieved of the necessity of pacing the
streets, to know that the space between him and his desire decreased
with every revolution of the wheels.

Ah! on a lovely June morning, at our friend Paul's age and with one's
heart overflowing with love as his was, to fly along the white Corniche
road behind four horses, is to feel an intoxication of travel that words
cannot describe. On the left, at a depth of a hundred feet, lies the sea
flecked with foam, from the little