“Yes; the yacht was the yacht of the Baron de Mélide, and the bête-noire, by the same token, of madame, who hated the sea.”
And madame was at the château near Fréjus, where Monsieur le Baron had installed her on the outbreak of the war, and would assuredly be on the pier at St. Raphael to meet them. And God only knew where Monsieur le Baron was. He had gone, it was said, to the war in some civil capacity.
As they stood on deck, Denise soon perceived the little pier where there were, even at this early hour, a few of those indefatigable Mediterranean Waltons who fish and fish and catch nothing, all through the sunny day. Presently Mademoiselle Brun caught sight of a small dot of colour which seemed to move spasmodically up and down.
“I see the parasol,” she said, “of Jane de Mélide. What good friends we have!”
And presently they were near enough to wave a handkerchief in answer to the Baroness de Mélide's vigorous salutations. The yacht crept round the pier-head, and was soon made fast to a small white buoy. While a boat was being lowered, the baroness, in a gay Parisian dress, walked impatiently backwards and forwards, waved her parasol, and called out incoherent remarks, which Mademoiselle Brun answered by a curt gesture of the hand.
“My poor friend!” exclaimed the baroness, as she embraced Mademoiselle Brun. “My dear Denise, you are a brave woman. I have heard all about you.”
And her quick, dancing eyes took in at a glance that Denise had come against her will, and Mademoiselle Brun had brought her. Of which Denise was ignorant, for the sunshine and brightness of the scene affected her and made her happy.
“Surely,” she said, as they walked the length of the pier together, “the bad news has been exaggerated. The war will soon be over and we shall be happy again.”
“Do not talk of it,” cried the baroness. “It is a horror. I saw Lory, after Wörth, and that was enough war for me. And, figure to yourself!—I am all alone in this great house. It is a charity to come and stay with me. Lory has gone to the front. My husband, who said he loved me—where is he? Bonjour, and he is gone. He leaves me without a regret. And I, who cry my eyes out; or would cry them out if I were a fool—such as mademoiselle thinks me. Ah! I do not know what has come to all the men.”
“But I do,” said mademoiselle, who had seen war before.