XX
It was a close, misty day. The hills and the sea were shrouded in a silvery veil, the air was sultry, not a leaf stirred in the trees.
Directly after lunch Gzhatski had accompanied Irene to Nice, where she was to try on her “forty-third dress, and her seventy-fourth hat,” as he gaily remarked. At five o’clock, tired after a busy afternoon’s shopping, they went to the Jetée-Promenade, for tea.
The season being at its very last ebb, the orchestra was playing in the large hall for the sole benefit of two old women, who slept peacefully in the stalls, and the luxurious empty rooms reminded one of the Sahara Desert on a sultry summer day. The solitary waiter, overjoyed to see two visitors, hastened to offer them the best table beside the window, where they could enjoy an uninterrupted view over the magnificent Quai des Anglais, with its gorgeous hotels, its palm-trees, and its gay public that seemed suddenly to have dropped from the clouds. The waves were splashing lazily on the shore, numerous half-nude children were paddling in the clear blue water, and a faint, fresh sea-breeze came in at the open window, surrounding Gzhatski and Irene with its caresses.
The sudden sound of noisy footsteps reverberating through the empty rooms caused them both to turn round. The intruder was a tall, handsome “brunette,” in a white costume and an enormous hat, elegantly poised on a luxurious mass of hair. A Southern beauty, this, in the full bloom of her charms, the paint on her face serving more as a signpost than an ornament, for she would undoubtedly have been more attractive without it. Carrying herself with the imperious ease of a woman accustomed to attract universal attention, she sank carelessly into a wicker armchair, crossed her legs, and without so much as glancing at the waiter, ordered a whisky and soda.
“So that is the kind of divinity that grows on the trees here,” said Gzhatski, scrutinizing the newcomer attentively. “And I had already decided that Nice was as empty as an Arabian desert.”
“She does not live in Nice,” answered Irene. “She is staying at our hotel in Monte Carlo.”
“How do you know?” said Gzhatski in surprise.
“I happened to be on the balcony last night when the hotel omnibus brought her from the station. I remember noticing the size of her hat-box—now it does not surprise me any more!”
Gzhatski frowned. “I should never have thought a respectable hotel like ours would admit such ‘ladies,’” he muttered crossly.