The day was warm; the blue Italian sky shone in all its splendour. The sea sang its immortal symphony. The trees rustled harmoniously, the laurels exhaled their perfumes, the golden oranges contrasted with the dark green leaves, and the fresh sea-breeze sweetly refreshed the limpid air.

Alone at a table a man was seated. He was the same who, some years before, travelled this way in company with the sprightly dancer, Gigante. But he was no longer in joyous humour. He was Henri Segel; but how changed!

Equally isolated and bored we find our Tsigane, Stamlo Gako, whom the reader has not forgotten. He is more yellow and blacker than ever, and he has grown stout, heavy, and somnolent.

There is another solitary traveller. It is Gromof, who is not now accompanied by the charming Lucie Coloni. He carries his head high, as if to brave destiny. But his irritation betrays itself in every movement. He amuses himself by making little b.a.l.l.s of bread crumbs, and throws out of the window the fruit that he has scarcely tasted.

These three do not converse. The Russian and the gypsy have met before, as we have seen, but they do not care to renew the acquaintance. As for Segel, he has never spoken with either Gromof or Gako.

A sumptuous equipage entered the court of the inn. The host and the servants hastened to meet it. A lady filled the whole interior of the vehicle with her white robe, and one scarcely perceived in one corner hidden under the immense crinoline, which was then so fashionable, a little, thin, withered-looking man.

They were no doubt husband and wife. She was in all the splendour of her youth, charming, elegant, confident of her beauty, proud and victorious. He, as one soon perceived, was the most humble servant of her who bore his name and disposed of his fortune.

He jumped out of the carriage, and with all the manner and gallantry of a young man, despite his fifty and odd years, presented his hand to his queen to aid her to descend. She raised herself with indifference, and gathered together the train of her rustling robe.

At sight of this beauty, whom he immediately recognized through the window near which he dined, Henri rose as if he wished to avoid a disagreeable meeting, but a retreat was impossible. To go out he must necessarily pa.s.s them. He made an ironical grimace and reseated himself.

The reader has recognized Muse, now actually Baroness Von Kreig, the wife of a wealthy speculator, whose nationality was a mystery to all, for he carefully concealed his Jewish origin. He did not give himself out as a Pole, although living in Poland, but pa.s.sed sometimes for a Russian, oftener for a German. Where and how did he steal the t.i.tle of baron? No one knew. It might have been, said some, the recompense of a great financial operation. He wore on his travelling coat several ribbons and decorations.

The reader doubtless expected to hear of the marriage of Muse and Henri, who were supposed to be so much attached to each other; but in consequence of the fickleness and calculation of the lady, the marriage had not come to pa.s.s. Henri, for her sake, had divorced his wife, had proposed, been accepted, and pa.s.sed for her future husband everywhere.

Muse introduced him to all her friends, and he was proud of his betrothed. It was then that the Baron Von Kreig met the enchantress on the street. He had known the mother of old, but avoided her because she had the bad habit of borrowing money which she always forgot to return.

The baron had just lost his second wife, and he required for his third, above all, good health. He was struck with the blooming beauty of Muse, and fell in love at first sight. The next day he went to pay her a visit. Muse immediately coolly sat down, when she was alone, and compared him with Henri. Von Kreig was ten times richer, a baron, and could introduce her into the most brilliant circles of society. He was well educated, and, although old and dried up, was an excellent match.

Muse put forth all her powers of fascination, and soon succeeded in bringing the baron to her feet. The marriage with Henri was delayed under pretext that the lace had not arrived from Paris. In the meanwhile the baron gained over the mother by consenting without demur to the most advantageous settlements for the daughter, imposed by Madame Wtorkowska. The engagement was accomplished quietly. Then there remained the rather unpleasant task of breaking with Henri, who believed himself master of the situation, and laughed at the attentions of the baron.

It puzzled even the genius of these two women to find a plausible or decent excuse for the rupture. In the intervals of his life, as a betrothed between the acts, as it were, Segel sought distraction at the theatre. He was tied to the gauzy ap.r.o.n-strings of a sylph, or, in plain words, a danseuse. This connection had lasted for more than two years, and the evenings away from Muse were pa.s.sed with the beautiful danseuse. He made no secret of it, and his carriage was often seen at the door of the ballet-girl's dwelling. It was with this, as a pretext, that Madame Wtorkowska sought to break the engagement. In vain Segel asked for pardon. He was dismissed, and received back the ring he had given Muse. For this engagement ring he had paid ten thousand francs, in Paris. It was a superb solitaire surrounded with smaller diamonds, each half a carat in weight. It was shown, as if by accident, to the baron; he felt the sacrifice, and with n.o.ble emulation Von Kreig replaced it by another which cost thirty thousand francs.

Segel stormed, but the baron solemnly conducted Muse to the altar. The newly married couple started on a wedding trip, which was to be the grand tour of Europe, including all the large cities, baths, and fashionable resorts.

The blackest ingrat.i.tude awaited Madame Wtorkowska. Her son-in-law paid her debts, and settled on her a beggarly pension; then took his leave courteously, and forbade more than rare communications with her daughter. The poor woman, who had calculated on managing everything, travelling with them, and spending money lavishly, prayed, begged, and threatened. The baron was inexorable, and replied by silence only. The daughter sacrificed her mother with Roman stoicism, playing the part of a humble and obedient wife.

Madame was at first disheartened and fell ill; then, as one must live, she rented an apartment in the faubourg, and, to augment her income, set up an _ecarte_, taking care always to have around her many pleasing young women to add to the attractions of the place. The house soon became well known, although no one cared to avow openly that they visited it. Sofronof, Bavorof, and others remained faithful to the unfortunate.

As may be supposed, this meeting between Muse and Henri at the inn was equally distasteful to both. The moment the baroness entered the grotto her eyes fell on her old lover. Notwithstanding her usual presence of mind, she was confused. More master of the situation, Segel saluted her respectfully, and smiled bitterly.

At the same time there arrived another couple. They were quietly dressed, yet with a certain distinction which is not always, as some think, an exclusive possession of birth. They were the distinguished guests expected by the host, Jacob and Mathilde. They came in, thinking themselves unknown. The husband was relating his first visit to this fairy grotto; the wife replied laughing. The sound of her voice came to Henri's ears; he believed it at first a hallucination; he listened attentively, and could not doubt the reality of his first impression.

There seemed to him a strange fatality in this simultaneous meeting of the two persons, one of whom recalled his lost peace, the other his vanished hopes. He could not see Mathilde, and the sound of her well-known voice seemed to descend from the clouds. Curious to know if it were she, he went to the end of the grotto, where, in an isolated corner, Jacob dined with her. She seemed rejuvenated, and her face shone with happiness. Her husband kissed her hands, believing himself un.o.bserved.

Segel experienced a feeling of wrath; his lips curled under a sardonic smile.

"All happy!" said he. "And I"--

Then he returned to his place. The silvery voice of Madame Jacob attracted the attention of the baroness also, and she, likewise, drew near under pretext of examining the grotto. She gave a cry of surprise.

The couple turned and recognized Muse, who tenderly greeted the old friend whom she had so often wished dead.

"Ah, my dear Mathilde," cried she, "what a happy and unexpected meeting!"

Truly it was a romantic encounter, rarely met with in real life.

Chance, however, often plays us tricks altogether unforeseen.

Mathilde did not share the apparent joy of Muse, for whom she had no great affection. But their acquaintance dated back to the time when they both wore short dresses, and the remembrances of childhood are always pleasant.

The proprieties required observance, and Jacob had his table carried to the grand _salon_, where their friends were dining; he certainly did not expect to see Henri Segel, and Mathilde saw him first. She drew back, for all her involuntary unhappy experience with Henri appeared before her. Her husband, although much annoyed, encouraged her to shake off her distress.

Segel understood that his presence was disagreeable to all; therefore it pleased him to impose it. It delighted him to see all countenances grow pale and abstracted at sight of him. He affected a cynical gayety, drank a gla.s.s of wine, lighted a cigar, then turned toward Jacob and Mathilde.

With well-simulated indifference Muse watched the meeting. Her husband, playing the young man, had risen quickly and received his wife's friends with much courtesy. He was very polite to Jacob, and entirely ignored the revolutionary role that he had played.

Von Kreig detested Henri, but he deemed it proper for a baron to disguise his sentiments, and he was very courteous to his vanquished rival. The scene was highly dramatic. There was no outward appearance of excitement, however, for men of the world do not show their feelings in public.

Gromof, roused from his meditations, looked around and perceived Jacob.

"How strange," said he, "to meet you again at Sestri."

"Yes," replied the latter, "a real accident. I am the same as ever, you see, but not so gay as then."

The baron asked in a low voice:--

"Who is this person?"

"A Russian," replied Jacob.

Von Kreig, taking Gromof for a prominent official of the imperial court, was going to ask for an introduction, when Jacob whispered in his ear:--

"An outlaw."

The baron drew back and, as he was a strict conservative, thought:--

"What kind of company have we fallen in with, anyway?" Then he said to Jacob:--

"Madame and yourself are travelling for pleasure, are you not?"

"We are obliged to leave Poland," replied Jacob. "I joined the revolutionists, was wounded and was taken to Austria, whence orders came for me to leave the country. My wife and I seek a retreat where we may dwell peacefully. It is not so easy to find. Nowhere in Europe, except in Switzerland or England, is there much security for exiles. In Saxony they are given leave to remain only temporarily. In Bavaria they are not given leave to remain at all. In France an arbitrary expulsion, authorized by the law, always like the sword of Damocles, is suspended over their heads; and in Belgium they are also unwelcome."

"But I think, monsieur, that you can better your position. The Russian government is magnanimous; it has proclaimed a general amnesty."

"Yes, I could have obtained that amnesty by solicitation. Unfortunately the pardon granted to-day does not always do for to-morrow. In Russia the despotism of caprice is the only law."

Von Kreig frowned.

"The state of siege exists now," said he, "but will not last always."

"To ask permission to return is to avow a fault," said Jacob, "and to return to Poland now would be to act against my conscience."

The baron knew not how to reply. Gromof relieved him of this embarra.s.sment by joining in the conversation.

"I told you," said he to Jacob, "what would be the result of your insurrection."