It was a close, misty day. The hills and the sea were shrouded in a silvery veil, the air was sultry, not a leaf stirred in the trees.

Directly after lunch Gzhatski had accompanied Irene to Nice, where she was to try on her “forty-third dress, and her seventy-fourth hat,” as he gaily remarked. At five o’clock, tired after a busy afternoon’s shopping, they went to the JetÉe-Promenade, for tea.

The season being at its very last ebb, the orchestra was playing in the large hall for the sole benefit of two old women, who slept peacefully in the stalls, and the luxurious empty rooms reminded one of the Sahara Desert on a sultry summer day. The solitary waiter, overjoyed to see two visitors, hastened to offer them the best table beside the window, where they could enjoy an uninterrupted view over the magnificent Quai des Anglais, with its gorgeous hotels, its palm-trees, and its gay public that seemed suddenly to have dropped from the clouds. The waves were splashing lazily on the shore, numerous half-nude children were paddling in the clear blue water, and a faint, fresh sea-breeze came in at the open window, surrounding Gzhatski and Irene with its caresses.

The sudden sound of noisy footsteps reverberating through the empty rooms caused them both to turn round. The intruder was a tall, handsome “brunette,” in a white costume and an enormous hat, elegantly poised on a luxurious mass of hair. A Southern beauty, this, in the full bloom of her charms, the paint on her face serving more as a signpost than an ornament, for she would undoubtedly have been more attractive without it. Carrying herself with the imperious ease of a woman accustomed to attract universal attention, she sank carelessly into a wicker armchair, crossed her legs, and without so much as glancing at the waiter, ordered a whisky and soda.

“So that is the kind of divinity that grows on the trees here,” said Gzhatski, scrutinizing the newcomer attentively. “And I had already decided that Nice was as empty as an Arabian desert.”

“She does not live in Nice,” answered Irene. “She is staying at our hotel in Monte Carlo.”

“How do you know?” said Gzhatski in surprise.

“I happened to be on the balcony last night when the hotel omnibus brought her from the station. I remember noticing the size of her hat-box—now it does not surprise me any more!”

Gzhatski frowned. “I should never have thought a respectable hotel like ours would admit such ‘ladies,’” he muttered crossly.

“Well, well—it does not concern us,” said Irene, amused at his annoyance.

“Indeed it does,” exclaimed Gzhatski. “Nobody could like the idea of such a creature as that living under the same roof and coming constantly under the eyes of his bride—of the woman who is dearer to him and whom he places higher than all else on earth.”

“Dear, dear! What old-fashioned prejudices!” smiled Irene. “I assure you the lady will not demoralize me. On the contrary, I pity her profoundly for having to lead such a frightful life. How do I know? Perhaps if my parents had not left me a fortune I might have been reduced to adopting the same profession!”

“Irene!” cried Gzhatski excitedly, “never dare to say such a thing again! The insult of the suggestion is insufferable. You would have starved rather than lead a life of shame. As if I did not know you! All the pity that is wasted on fallen women is a foolish and unjustifiable pity. There is so much work to be done in the world that everyone who really tries can earn an honest living. These worthless creatures never want to work at all—they care for nothing but a lazy, comfortable, luxurious life.”

Gzhatski had become flushed and excited. The unknown beauty turned round and listened with interest to this “quarrel” in a strange language. The waiter put before her a bottle of soda-water and a small glass of whisky, and went away. She swallowed the whisky in one draught, and took out an elegant gold cigarette case. Holding a cigarette between her teeth she scanned the table for matches. Finding none, she rose, and, as calmly as if approaching an acquaintance, crossed over to Gzhatski and asked him for a light.

Gzhatski looked as black as thunder.

Most ungraciously, he handed the matches to the unknown one, and paying no attention whatever to her “merci monsieur”—pronounced with the sweetest of smiles—he hastened to take Irene away from the Casino.

“The devil!” ejaculated Gzhatski furiously, as they emerged on to the promenade. “It is positively incredible, what they have been allowed to come to, here on the Riviera. The impudence of the hussy! The shamelessness! She sees that I am with a respectable lady, and she dares!” His indignation almost suffocated him.

“Well, well!” said Irene quietly, “why should you expect knowledge of the world and its ways from these unfortunates? Perhaps only yesterday she was washing linen in a laundry; where should she have learnt manners?”

“She should know her place, and not forget herself,” growled Gzhatski. “But don’t let us speak of it any more. To-morrow morning I shall complain to the manager of the hotel, and if he really insists on turning his place into a bad house we shall have to find rooms elsewhere.”

In the evening they went, as usual, to the gambling-rooms. There were very few people, and it was easy to get seats at the tables. Irene sat down beside the croupier, who smiled amiably as to a familiar, frequent visitor. She began to play eagerly, but luck did not come her way that evening, and she soon lost all she had with her. Raising her eyes to Gzhatski, who always made a point on these occasions of standing opposite her and looking at her reproachfully and disapprovingly, she saw, standing next to him, the daring lady of the recent incident in Nice. She had changed her attire, and wore a magnificent black evening dress, a mauve cloak, and an enormous hat with feathers. Diamonds trembled in her ears, and a row of priceless pearls encircled her neck. In the evening the paint on her face was less noticeable, and she was really so handsome that Irene gazed at her in undisguised admiration.

Gzhatski, though he was standing next to the woman who had so recently infuriated him, did not see her, his attention being riveted on a very original gambler, who was sitting at the end of the table. This was a wrinkled little old man, with a face as yellow as parchment. Before him, on the table, lay a pile of gold, which he was staking to right and to left, without any sort of system, apparently simply putting the coins in the spaces most easily accessible to his rheumatic hands. Strangely enough he nearly always won, and other players began to put their stakes on his numbers.

Feeling Irene’s glance upon him, Gzhatski smiled at her tenderly; but noticing that she was actually looking not at him, but at someone beside him, he turned his head, and his eyes met those of the unknown beauty. Gzhatski flushed, frowned, and turned away from the table. Irene rose, and they both left the gaming-room, and descended into the gardens. Having taken a few steps towards the hotel, Gzhatski suddenly stopped short and exclaimed:

“What a pity to go and shut ourselves up in that horrid hotel. It is only eleven o’clock. Let us go and have supper somewhere.”

Irene looked at Gzhatski in astonishment. Only the previous day he had been loud in his praises of the hotel, of its comfort and its beautiful views, and its proximity to the park. Why did he suddenly find it horrid? However, having accustomed herself never to contradict him, Irene made no objection, and they turned to the CafÉ de Paris.

The sound of fashionable valses and familiar operatic melodies floated across the still air from the brilliantly illuminated covered terrace. Quite a number of people sat at the little round tables, the usual heterogeneous Monte Carlo crowd. There were correct Englishmen in smoking-jackets; there were Germans who had missed their last train back to Menton, and were having supper in company with their fat wives, the latter dressed in hideous canary-coloured blouses, their hats all askew. There were also pretty and theatrically “done-up” young ladies in full evening dress, coming in with an air of boredom, throwing off their wraps with studied negligence, and indifferently perusing the menu. These were professional gamblers, of whom the French say, “qu’elles ne sont pas fixÉes,” and their young faces bore the stamp of that surfeit of luxury and laziness that had long ago robbed their lives of all interest and charm.

In the middle of the terrace a queer company was drawing universal attention to itself. The men had dirty hands and wore shabby coats, glaring ties, and dusty boots. The women were red-haired, vulgar, and noisy. Their table was littered with the most choice and expensive dishes, to which they helped themselves greedily without order or system, even forbidding the waiters to change their plates. The other visitors threw them astonished glances, the waiters winked knowingly at each other, and the elegant French group sitting near Irene simply gasped in horrified wonder.

“Vous verrez qu’ils se moucheront dans leur serviette, et embrasseront les femmes au dessert,” said a middle-aged Frenchman, scrutinizing the offenders severely.

“Ma foi, j’ai envie de tÉlÉphoner au commissaire de police,” answered another; “they have probably murdered and robbed somebody on the highway, and have come here to enjoy themselves on the spoils!”

“Not a bit,” sighed a third enviously. “They have simply had luck at the tables; it is always that kind that wins!”

The restaurant in the meantime was becoming very crowded. Two badly dressed, middle-aged Englishwomen, with flabby cheeks and triple chins, but wearing a King’s ransom in diamonds and furs, were looking round for a table. These noble ladies had seen and experienced so much in their lives that they were no longer capable of taking an interest in anything except two enormous dogs, which, in spite of prohibitions, they had brought with them. The dogs tore at their leashes, wriggled out of their collars, and poked their noses into people’s plates. The visitors protested, but in vain. All the waiters seemed to know the dogs, petted them, and called them by their names, while the head-waiter led the English ladies to a reserved table, and, bowing obsequiously, waited for their order. The musicians, in their red and gold coats, played with redoubled gusto. Their violins sang and wept and danced. Some of the public applauded; others called up one or another of the players, and gave him money. Alas! these artists who could extract such sublime tones from their instruments were only too glad to accept even trifling tips! Close to Gzhatski sat, deep in meditation, with his elbows on the table, a handsome young German. He had come very early, and had ordered a choice supper for two. The champagne had long been standing ready on ice; red roses were scattered over the snowy tablecloth. Time passed, and still she came not! The poor young German was excited, jumped up every minute and looked towards the door, from time to time rushed out to the porch, and repeatedly questioned the long-suffering head-waiter.

“Mais, monsieur le Baron, j’ai dÉjÀ eu l’honneur de vous dire,” replied the latter wearily. “‘Viendrai si je puis,’ tel est le message, pris au tÉlÉphone.”

Neighbouring visitors were observing the poor young man with some amusement, and the waiters were smiling. The champagne had been twice taken away and brought back again, the crowd was thinning, the musicians were playing their final number, when at last a cab drove up to the door. The enamoured swain rushed forward ecstatically, to meet a fragile, dainty, blue-eyed Gretchen, who entered shyly, dressed all in white, and wreathed in blushes and smiles. This was not the German but the French type of Gretchen, a type that rarely goes as far as the complete faux pas, but delights in the temptations and risks of love-making and philandering. Feeling that resistance is their chief charm, these Dresden china temptresses never hurry to surrender.

“Is that all he was waiting for, poor boy?” said Gzhatski, with a pitying smile. “Hardly worth while. She has not a farthingsworth of temperament.”

The “poor boy,” however, was in the seventh heaven. He filled the lady’s glass, helped her to everything, ate nothing himself, gazed at his Gretchen, and sighed deeply. He would have been ridiculous had not the divine spark of sincere passion illumined his innocent, frank young face. With his elbows on the table, he appeared to be ardently persuading the young lady of something, and suddenly, in a low voice, began to recite.

“He is not a German for nothing!” laughed Gzhatski. “Let us escape; or else we shall have to listen to the whole of Goethe.”

But Sergei Grigorievitch was mistaken. The young man was reciting, in excellent French, the famous “DÉclaration” of Richepin:

Gretchen pretended to be frightened, but Irene glanced mutely at Gzhatski, and they both thought “It is true!” The wine, the supper, the music, had affected them; they spoke little, looked at each other mysteriously, and, all unconsciously, sighed as deeply as the young German.

They left the restaurant, overcome with tenderness, pressing close to each other, and softly humming the passionate, recently-heard melodies that still echoed in their ears. The night was dark and warm and sultry. They had not far to go. Their hotel gleamed white, silent, and ghostly, between the trees. The door leading into the garden was ajar, and a streak of light fell across the path. As they approached they saw that not everyone had yet retired for the night. The dark beauty of the afternoon’s incident was standing motionless on the veranda, leaning her elbow on the balustrade, as though waiting for someone. She had taken off her enormous hat, and had thrown a black lace shawl over her hair. Between her teeth she held a red rose. Gzhatski passed without looking at her, and her glance followed him with a sarcastic smile.

“She looks like Carmen,” said Irene. “Carmen in the first act, when she is tempting Don JosÉ.”

Sergei Grigorievitch quite unexpectedly flared up. “Carmen!” he exclaimed in a white rage. “Carmen! Can you think of any more poetical comparisons? She is not Carmen, but simply a ?!”

“Sergei Grigorievitch!” gasped Irene.

“Well? You think that is not a drawing-room expression? Very well—I take it back, and I beg your pardon—but it expresses my idea excellently. However, don’t let us continue the conversation; it is time to go to bed. Here we are at your door. I wish you a good night!”

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