she visited the empress of Russia, then residing at Nice, where she
died. Her Imperial Majesty, who was noted for her habit of making
personal remarks, said bluntly, "Madame la comtesse, how beautiful you
must have been!" "Majesty," answered the _spirituelle_ Madame de
Dempierre, "you were complaining of the nearness of your sight: since
you can distinguish my beauty through the vista of so many years, I
think you enjoy long-sightedness in a remarkable degree." The empress
wrinkled her nose, and presently observed: "I think, countess, I
remember to have seen your husband, General de Dempierre, in Russia."
"Doubtless Your Majesty did so: he was the first Frenchman that entered
the Kremlin." The czarina was silent: the fall of Moscow was not a
pleasant subject of conversation to the wife of Nicholas. The Villa de
Diesbach comes next, the winter residence of the historical family of
that name, into which married a few years since a tall, gazelle-eyed
American belle, Miss Meta McCall. Then follows the pretty Villa
Bouxhoevden, the property of a Corlandese count of a very noble house,
whose wife hails from New Jersey. The countess is much the fashion, and
her hospitable house is a rendezvous of the elite of the foreign and
American colony. She is a tall, graceful woman, with a pale and
interesting countenance, shadowed with clusters of light-brown curls,
which reminds one of Vandyke's portraits of Queen Henrietta Maria--a
likeness somewhat increased by costumes admirably suited to her
style--long flowing robes of rich silk trimmed with ermine and costly
lace. Then there is Mrs. Williams's garden, with Indian creepers and
gaudy Eastern plants, sent to her by her gallant son, the Crimean hero,
from the slopes of the Himalayas. Here on a Sunday gathers a pleasant
circle to drink five-o'clock tea and listen to the bright remarks of
Madame de la Caume, the daughter of the hostess, who knows more about
French politics than many a deputy at Versailles. But whilst we have
been looking in at villa-gardens the Promenade has filled up rapidly. A
continuous stream of carriages occupies the centre of the road, a throng
of gay folks animate with their showiest toilets the oleander walk and
the Jardin Publique, where a tolerable band plays for two or three hours
thrice a week. The marble stairs of the Casino are crowded with
loungers, and the windows and balconies of every villa are filled with
well-dressed men and women. Nowhere, perhaps,