e hot summer sun stretched like a fiery cloth over the
mountains, over the long expanses of sand, and over the motionless,
apparently solid blue sea. The train went on through the tunnels, along
the slopes, above the water, on straight, wall-like viaducts, and a soft,
vague, saltish smell, a smell of drying seaweed, mingled at times with
the strong, heavy perfume of the flowers.

But Paul neither saw, looked at, nor smelled anything, for our fellow
traveller engrossed all his attention.

When we reached Cannes, as he wished to speak to me he signed to me to
get out, and as soon as I did so, he took me by the arm.

"Do you know, she is really charming. Just look at her eyes; and I never
saw anything like her hair."

"Don't excite yourself," I replied, "or else address her, if you have any
intentions that way. She does not look unapproachable; I fancy, although
she appear to be a little bit grumpy."

"Why don't you speak to her?" he said.

"I don't know what to say, for I am always terribly stupid at first; I
can never make advances to a woman in the street. I follow them, go round
and round them, and quite close to them, but never know what to say at
first. I only once tried to enter into conversation with a woman in that
way. As I clearly saw that she was waiting for me to make overtures, and
as I felt bound to say something, I stammered out, 'I hope you are quite
well, madame?' She laughed in my face, and I made my escape."

I promised Paul to do all I could to bring about a conversation, and when
we had taken our places again, I politely asked our neighbor:

"Have you any objection to the smell of tobacco, madame?"

She merely replied, "Non capisco."

So she was an Italian! I felt an absurd inclination to laugh. As Paul did
not understand a word of that language, I was obliged to act as his
interpreter, so I said in Italian:

"I asked you, madame, whether you had any objection to tobacco smoke?"

With an angry look she replied, "Che mi fa!"

She had neither turned her head nor looked at me, and I really did not
know whether to take this "What do I care" for an authorization, a
refusal, a real sign of indifference, or for a mere "Let me alone."

"Madame," I replied, "if you mind the smell of tobacco in the
least--"

She again said, "Mica," in a tone which seemed to mean, "I wish to
goodness you would leave me alone!" It was, however, a kind of
permission, so I said to Paul:

"You may smoke."

He lo