The feelings of Céleste and Renée on seeing the Côte d'Azur for the first time cannot be described. The balmy air was filled with the delicious perfumes of a million flowers and fields of new-mown hay. They saw the deep blue sky paling to a delicate turquoise where it touched the sea at the horizon. They saw the water scintillating with the sunlight, and its placid surface broken by the white crests of the countless waves. What delighted them most was the exquisite blending of colours, the variations of light and shade, and the luxuriance and wonderful variety of the foliage. Here they saw the loveliest forms of tropical foliage side by side with the more familiar but not less beautiful trees of central and northern Europe. The flowers of the whole world seemed to contribute to the enchanting loveliness of the scene. They saw dense forests of fragrant pine trees, woodland footpaths lined with the sweet alyssum, resembling drifts of scented snow, while the thyme and rosemary formed fragrant patches over the stony sides of the mountains. Higher up the slopes luxuriant groves of pistacia lentiscus or mastic trees could be seen, and bushes of the members of the quassia family, such as the cneorum tricoccum, with its curious triple clusters of berries. In the distance rose the beautiful Mount Boron crowned with the Fort of Montalban, and its slopes covered with tall cistus trees. Dotted here and there were charming villas with delightful gardens, intoxicating the senses with the perfume of lemon and orange. Occasionally the carouba tree could be seen with its wonderful locust-bean pods credited with being the staple food of John the Baptist.
Scattered up and down were olive trees, hoary with age, their trunks knotted and gnarled and twisted like the limbs of caliban. Quite close to Beaulieu they saw sheltered footpaths with hedges on either side lined with roses and geraniums. To the west was the Bay of Villefranche with small gunboats and yachts rocking placidly in the harbour.
"Surely," said the professor, "these must be the gardens of Alcinous with their perpetual summer hemmed in by the mighty salient battlements which form the vanguard of the Alpine chain."
As the members of the party were retiring for the night, Monsieur Beaupaire, who had caught a slight chill on the chest, in spite of what Charley had told him the day before, developed a fit of uncontrollable coughing accompanied with a feeling of oppression on the chest. Dr. Villebois immediately offered his services, which were accepted with gratitude. He prescribed a cough mixture, and ordered a mustard plaster to be applied for five minutes over the whole of the chest.
"Doctor," said Violette, putting her arms in a coaxing way on his shoulders, "may I prepare the plaster myself, as I have done it many times before, and I know so well how to do it."
"Certainly," said Villebois, "nobody could do it better, get it by all means, and put it on as soon as your father is comfortably settled in bed."
Violette, as soon as she had obtained the ingredients, set to work to prepare the plaster. It was quite late by this time, and the messenger had great difficulty in finding a chemist's shop open, to have the medicine made up.
Violette loved nursing and felt a keen pleasure in doctoring her father. She acted on the principle that if one dose will do a certain amount of good, two doses ought to do twice the benefit, and accordingly she spread a very liberal amount of mustard on the linen. When all was ready she went upstairs to his bedroom, but by this time all the lights were turned off, and she crept cautiously along the passage to his room. She opened the door, and a faint light just enabled her to see where her father was sleeping. He was snoring away apparently in a delightful dream, and Violette, unwilling to awake him, did not turn up the light. So in the semi-darkness she tenderly laid bare his chest, and carefully spread the plaster over the surface. The sufferer uttered a groan, but did not wake. Violette wrapped him up snugly and bent down and gave her father a kiss on his forehead, when the light becoming suddenly brighter, she perceived to her horror that it was not her father at all, but Marcel. Terrified at her mistake she gave a little scream, and ran out of the room, the perspiration streaming from her forehead.
"Oh! dear, oh! dear," she exclaimed, "whatever shall I do? Here I have gone into Marcel's room, and kissed him on the forehead and put a huge mustard plaster on his chest, and now I dare not take it off again for fear of waking him up. Oh! what will become of me?" Violette was in despair. Heartily wishing the ground would open and swallow her up, she walked up and down the passage wringing her hands in an agony of mind, and wondering what the end of it all would be. At length Violette went to her bedroom, and falling on her knees burst into a flood of tears. But her tears were soon over as the absurdity of the situation dawned on her. A few minutes later she undressed and was soon in the arms of Morpheus, quite oblivious of the mischief she was creating. Violette had not been in bed more than half an hour when she was awakened by hearing the most appalling noise. Somebody was shouting at the top of his voice, "Help! Help! Murder! Fire! Thieves!" Hastily putting on her slippers and dressing-gown, she ran into the passage. By this time the entire establishment was aroused, and men and women attired in all sorts of costumes came hurrying up the stairs to see what all the row was about. Mine host flew to the fire alarm and rang up the fire brigade without waiting to ascertain the real cause of the mischief. At the same time the portier telephoned to the police. The hubbub and confusion increased every moment. Waiters flew wildly up and down stairs, each one asking his neighbour what all the noise was about.
A few minutes later a fire engine came dashing up and half a dozen firemen with their hatchets and brass helmets ran up the stairs followed by three or four gendarmes in uniform. The proprietor ran towards them with his arms outstretched gesticulating wildly. Violette, who was standing in front of her door, looked up and saw the gentleman who was the author of all the scene rush past her clad in pajamas with an embroidered cap ornamented with a gold tassel, and almost flinging himself into the arms of the landlord. "Voilà!" he shouted, "see what some miscreant has done to me," and he laid bare his chest all blazing red and fearfully inflamed with the mustard, while he shook the offending plaster in monsieur's face. Violette caught sight of his face. Oh, horror, it was Marcel sure enough, his eyes gleaming, his face flushed, and shouting with a voice almost inarticulate with rage and pain.