r eyes enough on the scene
which was before her. The blue sea, the sky without a cloud, the white
houses rising on the hill amid the dark foliage, and in the distance the
mountaintops covered with snow, and tinged with pink under the brilliant
rays of the sun. All this vigorous and slightly wild nature surprised the
Parisienne. It was a new experience. Dazzled by the light and intoxicated
with the perfumes, a sort of languor came over her. She soon recovered
and became quite strong--something altogether new for her, and she felt
thoroughly happy.

The life of the Prince and the Princess became at Nice what it had been
in Paris during the early days of their marriage. Visitors flocked to
their house. All that the colony could reckon of well-known Parisians and
foreigners of high repute presented themselves at the villa. The fetes
recommenced. They gave receptions three times a week; the other evenings
Serge went to the Cercle.

This absorbing life had gone on for two months. It was the beginning of
February, and already nature was assuming a new appearance under the
influence of spring. One evening, three people--two gentlemen and a
lady--stepped out of a carriage at the villa gates, and found themselves
face to face with a traveller who had come on foot. Two exclamations
broke out simultaneously.

"Marechal!" "Monsieur Savinien!"

"You! at Nice? And by what miracle?"

"A miracle which makes you travel fifteen leagues an hour in exchange for
a hundred and thirty-three francs first-class, and is called the
Marseilles express!"

"I beg your pardon, my dear friend. I have not introduced you to Monsieur
and Mademoiselle Herzog."

"I have already had the honor of meeting Mademoiselle Herzog at Madame
Desvarennes's," said Marechal, bowing to the young girl, without
appearing to notice the father.

"You were going to the villa?" asked Savinien. "We, too, were going. But
how is my aunt? When did you leave her?"

"I have not left her."

"What's that you say?"

"I say that she is here."

Savinien let his arms drop in profound consternation to show how
difficult it was for him to believe what was going on. Then, in a faint
treble voice, he said:

"My aunt! At Nice! Promenade des Anglais! That's something more wonderful
than the telephone and phonograph! If you had told me that the Pantheon
had landed one fine night on the banks of the Paillon, I should not be
more astonished. I thought Madame Desvarennes was as de