The train began its journey again; the houses of Marseilles could be
seen through the morning haze; the Mediterranean appeared, greenish,
whitish, and fields covered with hoar-frost.
“What horrid weather!” exclaimed Laura, shuddering. “I dislike the cold
more and more all the time.”
The dining-car waiter came and filled their cups with _café-au-lait_.
Laura drew off her gloves and took one of the hot cups between her white
hands.
“Oh, this is comforting!” she said.
Cæsar began to sip the boiling liquid.
“I don’t see how you can stand it. It’s scalding.”
“That’s the way to get warm,” replied Cæsar, undisturbed.
Laura began to take her coffee by spoonfuls. Just then there come into
the dining-car a tall blond gentleman and a young, charming lady, each
smarter than the other. The man bowed to Laura with much formality.
“Who is he?” asked Cæsar.
“He is the second son of Lord Marchmont, and he has married a Yankee
millionairess.”
“You knew him in Rome?”
“No, I knew him at Florence last year, and he paid me attention rather
boldly.”
“He is looking at you a lot now.”
“He is capable of thinking that I am off on an adventure with you.”
“Possibly. She is a magnificent woman.”
“Right you are. She is a marvel. She is almost too pretty. She shows no
character; she has no air of breeding.” “There doesn’t seem to be any
great congeniality between them.”
“No, they don’t get on very well. But come along, pay, let’s go. So
many people are coming in here.”
Laura got up, and after her, Cæsar. As she passed, one heard the swish
of her silk petticoats. The travellers looked at her with admiration.
“I believe these people envy me,” said Cæsar philosophically.
“It’s quite possible, _bambino_,” she responded, laughing.
They entered their compartment. The train was running at full speed
along the coast. The greenish sea and the cloudy sky stretched away and
blotted out the horizon. At Toulon the bad weather continued; a bit
beyond, the sun came out, pallid in the fog, circled with a yellowish
halo; then the fog dispersed rapidly and a brilliant sun made the
snow-covered country shine.
“Oh! How beautiful!” exclaimed Laura.
The dense pure snow had packed down. The grape-vines broke up this white
background symmetrically, like flocks of crows settled on the earth; the
pines held high their rounds of foliage, and the cypresses, stern and
slim, stood out very black against all the whiteness.
On passing Hyères, as the train turned away from the shore, running
inland, grim snowy mountains began for some while to be visible, and the
sun vanished among the clouds; but when the train came out once more
toward the sea, near San Rafael, suddenly,--as if a theatrical effect
had been arranged,--the Mediterranean appeared, blue, flooded with
sunshine, full of lights and reflections. The sky stretched radiant
above the sea, without a cloud, without a shred of vapour.
“How marvellous! How beautiful!” Laura again exclaimed, contemplating
the landscape with emotion. “These blessed countries where the sun is!”
“They have no other drawback, than that the men who inhabit them are a
trifle vague,” said Cæsar.
“Bah!”
The air had grown milder; on the surface of the sea patterns of silver
foam, formed by the beating of the waves, widened themselves out; the
sun’s reflection on the restless waters made shining spots and rays,
flaming swords that dazzled the eye.
The train seemed to puff joyfully at submerging itself in this bland and
voluptuous atmosphere; the palm-trees of Cannes came surging up like a
promise of felicity, and the Côte d’Azur began to show its luminous and
splendid beauty.
Cæsar, tired of so much light, took a book from his pocket: _The
Speculator’s Manual_ of Proudhon, and set to reading it attentively and
to marking the passages that struck him as interesting.