opened, and Madame Desvarennes entered, followed by
her daughter, Cayrol, Serge and Pierre. The room, at the extreme end of
the villa, was square, surrounded on three sides by a gallery shut in
by glass and stocked with greenhouse plants. Lofty archways, half veiled
with draperies, led to the gallery. This room had been the favorite one
of Countess Woreseff. She had furnished it in Oriental style, with low
seats and large divans, inviting one to rest and dream during the heat
of the day. In the centre of the apartment was a large ottoman, the
middle of which formed a flower-stand. Steps led down from the gallery
to the terrace whence there was a most charming view of sea and land.

On seeing his aunt enter, Savinien rushed forward and seized both her
hands. Madame Desvarennes's arrival was an element of interest in his
unoccupied life. The dandy guessed at some mysterious business and
thought it possible that he might get to know it. With open ears and
prying eyes, he sought the meaning of the least words.

"If you knew, my dear aunt, how surprised I am to see you here," he
exclaimed in his hypocritical way.

"Not more so than I am to find myself here," said she, with a smile.
"But, bah! I have slipped my traces for a week."

"And what are you going to do here?" continued Savinien.

"What everybody does. By-the-bye, what do they do?" asked Madame
Desvarennes, with vivacity.

"That depends," answered the Prince. "There are two distinct populations
here. On the one hand, those who take care of themselves; on the other,
those who enjoy themselves. For the former there is the constitutional
every morning in the sun, with slow measured steps on the Promenade des
Anglais. For the latter there are excursions, races, regattas. The first
economize their life like misers; the second waste it like prodigals.
Then night comes on, and the air grows cold. Those who take care of
themselves go home, those who amuse themselves go out. The first put
on dressing-gowns; the second put on ball-dresses. Here, the house is
quiet, lit up by a night-light; there, the rooms sparkle with light, and
resound with the noise of music and dancing. Here they cough, there they
laugh. Infusion on the one hand, punch on the other. In fact, everywhere
and always, a contrast. Nice is at once the saddest and the gayest town.
One dies of over-enjoyment, and one amuses one's self at the risk of
dying."

"A sojourn here is very dangerous, then?"

"Oh!