Nice, the town of violets and mimosa, of confetti, of gay dominoes and
pretty women, is at its best in February, white, clean, and ready for
the reception of its most welcome guest, King Carnival. While England
is still gloomy with rain and fogs, and wintry winds still moan through
the bare branches, the weather is already summer-like, with bright
sunshine, soft warm breezes, and a sea of that intense sapphire blue
which only the Mediterranean can assume. Little wonder it is that the
gay world of every European capital should flock to Nice, so mild is its
climate, and so many and unique are its attractions.
Superbly situated on the broad beautiful Bay of Anges, with the
promontories of Ferrat and Antibes jutting out in the far distance on
either side, and sheltered by the lower terraces of the Maritime Alps,
it presents a handsome appearance, with the heights of Cimiez and other
fertile olive-clad hills forming a fitting background. Close to the
sea, in the centre of the town, is the pretty Jardin Public, with its
cascade and cavern of hanging stalactites, and behind is the fine Place
Massena, wherein stands the handsome white Casino Municipal, while along
the coast to the right stretches the world-famed Promenade des Anglais,
a magnificent esplanade bordered by palatial hotels and villas, all
uniformly white, the roadway planted with palms, oranges, cypresses and
aloes, and laid out with beds of sweet-smelling flowers.
Although February, the oranges are ripe, and roses and carnations are
already in full blossom; the Jardin Public is a blaze of brilliant
colour, and as one turns from the Promenade into the clean white streets
the fragrance of violets hawked in huge bunches at four sous by the
flower-girls greets the nostrils at every corner. Nice is indeed a town
of flowers. The garden of each villa is full of them--almost every
person in the street wears a buttonhole or carries violets, the
florists' shops diffuse the odour of mimosa and roses far and near, and
even the confectioners sell dainty little round boxes of violets and
roses crystallised in sugar. In those spring days Nice is verily in
Carnival mood. Her hotels are full, her shops display the daintiest
fabrics possible, and as to hats and sunshades--for both of which the
town is famous--it is doubtful whether such daring feats of millinery,
as fetching as they are audacious, can be found in any city or any clime
the world over. Certainly nowhere else is there a brighter or more
animated scene than that witnessed on the cemented footway of the
Promenade des Anglais on a February morning. Furs have long ago been
discarded, and silk blouses and sunshades testify to the warmth of the
brilliant sun, while the male portion of the visitors are attired in
straw hats and suits of summer tweed. Truly cosmopolitan and polyglot
is that chattering throng. One rubs shoulders with barons, counts and
highnesses of every nationality, and hears every European language
uttered by gay laughing lips; the sibilant French of the dainty
Parisienne, the musical Italian, the guttural German, the rapid English
and the slow Russian, all combine to make a veritable Babel of tongues,
while by the costumes alone, many of them marvellous creations of the
famous men-dressmakers, the race of their wearers may usually be
determined. Fashionable Europe is making happy holiday amid premature
summer.
Amid this chattering crowd of pleasure-seekers Liane was strolling
beside Prince Zertho one morning a fortnight after old Mr Harrison had
visited George in his dingy London chambers. Gowned in pearl grey, the
fitting of which bore the impress of the Parisian costumier, and with a
large hat to match, she walked on, chatting, laughing, and ever and anon
bowing to those she knew; while the Prince, in black jacket suit and
soft felt hat of silver-grey, lounged leisurely along beside her,
smoking a cigarette, and listening amusedly to her light, vivacious
gossip. Her appearance was entirely different to the trim,
neatly-dressed girl who, in cotton blouse and shabby skirt, had cycled
over the level Berkshire roads. With her pure and perfect French, her
slim waist girdled narrow, her _chevelure_ as carefully arranged as if
by a maid of the first order, one might have easily mistaken her for a
true Parisienne. Her beautiful face, combined with her delightful
_chic_, caused many to turn and glance after her as she passed, a fact
not unnoticed by her companion.
Her cheeks, no longer wan as they had been at Stratfield Mortimer, were
again flushed with health; her eyes sparkled with pleasure as she became
conscious of the profound admiration she everywhere evoked, and in her
footstep was the lightness of one in whose heart there lurked no shadow.
The day was perfect. Both sea and sky were of a deep, intense blue, the
long line of sun-blanched villas and hotels were gay with visitors, the
trees wore their freshest green, and the sweet scent of violets pervaded
everything. As they walked, Zertho was reflecting how striking was her
beauty, even among that crowd of Europe's prettiest and wealthiest
women.
Through November and December she and her father had remained in Paris,
and early in the new year had travelled down to Nice, taking up their
quarters at a small select "pension" in one of the large white villas
which, standing in its own pretty garden planted with oranges, palms and
roses, faced the Mediterranean at the end of the Promenade towards the
Magnan, while close by them Zertho occupied the handsome Villa Chevrier,
a great white house with palms in front, which also faced the sea at the
corner of the Rue Croix de Magnan.
In Nice a wealthy man can, if he desires, easily obtain a large
cosmopolitan circle of friends, therefore, the villa of Prince Zertho
d'Auzac quickly became a social centre, for his entertainments being
upon a scale almost unequalled, he found no lack of acceptances to his
invitations. Everyone in Nice soon knew him by sight; the well-informed
_Petit Nicois_ mentioned him almost daily in its "Echoes de Partout,"
the _Swiss and Nice Times_ devoted whole columns to descriptions of his
fetes and lists of his guests, among which figured many well-known
names, and the _Phare du Littoral_ was loud in its praises of his
dinners, his driving parties, and the dances at his house. Well-groomed
and usually attired in a dark suit, he walked in the Avenue de la Gare,
drove tandem with Liane at his side along the Promenade, rode his
unmatched bay on the Corniche Road, or strolled about the Casino, and
was everywhere recognised, for he was indeed the man of the hour.
He smiled, however, when he recollected how, two years before, he had
occupied an apartment "au troisieme" in the narrow noisy Rue de France,
while Liane, Nellie and the Captain had lived equally precariously in
the Rue Dalpozzo, close by. Often dependent on his wits for a meal he
had more than once, he remembered, strolled out upon that same Promenade
where he now walked with Liane, in search of some inexperienced youth
from whom he might obtain a few louis at cards, and thus stave off
starvation for the next few days. Their run of ill-luck had almost
knocked them both under until one night after the Captain had won a
considerable sum at Monte Carlo, a sudden suggestion occurred to them,
and together they started a private gaming-house in the Boulevard
Gambetta, in Nice, a place which, although remaining open only a few
months, gained a decidedly unenviable repute. Nevertheless, both men
found their venture a most profitable one, and it is more than likely
that their avarice would have led them into the arms of the police had
not Brooker, at Liane's instigation, suddenly dissolved the partnership,
taken his money, and returned to England.
Liane knew Nice well. Some of the most weary anxious and monotonous
days of her life had been spent in a well-remembered frowsy room high up
in that narrow back street which smelt eternally of garlic, where they
had lived for nine months almost penniless. In those days when the
Fates were unkind neither she nor Nelly ever ventured upon the Promenade
in the day-time, because their dresses were too dowdy, and they feared
lest they should encounter some of the people with whom they had become
acquainted when living at the big hotels at Monte Carlo, Mentone, or
Cannes, as they did when their father prospered. Yet she had now come
back to the town she once abhorred. Her father had sufficient to keep
them both respectably and in comfort, and Zertho was almost, if not
quite, a millionaire. Fortune they had so often courted had smiled at
last upon them all.
They were almost constantly at the Villa Chevrier. Each morning the
Prince would call with his tandem and take her for a drive, returning in
time for half an hour's walk on the Promenade before _dejeuner_, then a
lazy afternoon, a dinner with guests, a visit to the Opera, to the
Casino, or perhaps to a ball. So passed the warm, brilliant days
delightfully.
People soon began to inquire who was the handsome, sweet-faced English
girl with whom the Prince was seen so often, but Liane, entirely
ignorant of Zertho's mysterious influence over her father, or of his
motive, merely regarded him with the cordiality of an old friend.
Zertho, even in the old days, had always treated her with studied
courtesy, had often bought her sweetmeats and flowers, and was fond of
teasing her good-humouredly and promising to find her a wealthy husband.
It was he who had made both girls unexpected presents of bicycles after
their return to England, and never once, even when almost penniless, had
he forgotten to send them some trifle on their birthdays. Although he
had been her friend she nevertheless had regarded him with some slight,
ill-defined mistrust. Why, she had never been able to determine.
Though moving in the gay world of fashion and frivolity, of gambling and
kindred vices, she was not of it. Her knowledge of man's sins and
woman's frailty was wider than that of most girls of her age, yet she
had remained sweet, simple, and ingenuous. Often, when at home in her
room overlooking the sea, she would stand out upon the balcony and gaze
away at the horizon distant in the broad expanse of blue, thinking
deeply of George and wondering how he fared. Still she reflected that,
after all, life was far more pleasant there than in the lethargic
Berkshire village. Yet amid that constant whirl of gaiety she never
forgot those days that were past. Even on that bright morning as at
Zertho's side she passed along, her sweet face fresh beneath her cream
sunshade, she remembered the time when neither Nelly nor herself dare
walk there--those days of dire misfortune when only twenty sous lay
between them and starvation.
Strolling on through the well-dressed throng they presently met the
Captain, spruce in a suit of dark grey with soft hat and brown boots,
walking slowly, in conversation with a portly Frenchman who had been the
Prince's guest on the previous evening. Saluting, Zertho and his fair
companion passed on and continuing their walk strolled leisurely back to
the Villa Chevrier.
"Why are you so thoughtful?" her companion asked presently in French,
having noticed her wonderful grey eyes fixed upon the calm sunlit sea.
"It is woman's privilege to think," she replied, laughing as she turned
to him with her clear eyes expressive of the soul that lay behind. "I
was reflecting upon the difference between our life two years ago and
what it is to-day."
"Yes, slightly better, isn't it? Well, it is luck--always luck," he
answered. "Your father is going over to Monte Carlo to-morrow, and I
hope that Fortune may be kind also to him. He has waited long enough
for a change of luck."