"But even one line is too much here," replied Hautefeuille, pointing to a locomotive that was slowly skirting the shore, casting out a thick volume of smoke. "What is the good of modern inventions in an old country?—How can one dream of an existence of struggles amid such scenery?" he continued, as though thinking aloud. "How is it possible to contemplate the stern necessities of life upon this Riviera, or upon the other?—Provence and Italy are oases in your desert of workshops and manufactories. Have a little respect for them. Let there be at least a corner of the world left for lovers and poets, for those who yearn for a life of peace and happiness, for those who dream of a solitude shared only by some beloved companion and surrounded by the loveliness of nature and of art.—Ah! how sweet and peaceful this morning is!"
This state of enraptured exaltation, which made the happy lover reply with dreamy poetical reflections to the American's practical remarks, without noticing the comical character of the contrast, lasted all through the day. It even increased as time passed. The Jenny's passengers came up on deck one by one. And then Madame de Carlsberg appeared, pale and languid. In her eyes was the look of tender anxiety that gives such a touching aspect to the expression of a loving woman on the morrow of her first complete surrender. And what a happy revulsion, what rejoicing, when she sees, as Ely de Carlsberg did in her first glance, that the soul of her beloved vibrates in sympathy with her own, that he is as sensitive, as tender, as loving as before! This similarity of nature was so sweet, so deep, so penetrating, for the charming woman, that she could have gone down upon her knees before Pierre. She adored him at this moment for being so closely the image of what she desired him to be. And she felt compelled to speak of it, when they were seated side by side, as upon the night before, watching the gulf growing into life before them, with Genoa the Superb surging from the waves.
"Are you like me?—Were you afraid and yet longing to see me again, just as I longed to see you and yet was afraid? Were you also afraid of being soon called upon to differ for so much happiness? Did you feel as though a catastrophe were close at hand?—When I awoke and saw stretching before me the leaden sea and clouded sky, a shudder of dread ran through me like a presentiment.—I thought all was over, that you were no longer my Prince Beau-Temps"—this was a loving title she had conferred upon Pierre, alleging that the sky had cleared each time she had met him. "How exquisite it is," she continued caressingly, with the irresistible fascination of a loving woman, "to have trembled with apprehension and then to find you just as you were when I left you last night—no, not last night, this morning!"
At the remembrance of the fact that they had parted only so short a time before, she smiled. Her face lit up with an expression in which languor was mingled with such archness, grace with such voluptuous charm, that the young man, at the risk of being seen by the Chésys or Dickie Marsh, printed a kiss upon the hem of the loose Scotch cloak that enveloped her, its long hood streaming behind in the wind. Happily the American and his two guests had eyes for nothing but the beautiful city growing nearer and nearer and more distinct. It towered aloft now, girdled by its encircling mountains. Beyond the two ports, with their forests of masts and spars, could be seen the countless houses of the town, of all shapes and heights, pressed closely one upon the other. Tiny, narrow streets, almost lanes, wound upward, cutting through the mass of dwellings at right angles. The colors of the houses, once bright and gay, were faded and washed out by sun and rain. And yet it seemed still a city of wealth and caprice, with the terraces of its palaces outlined and covered with rare plants and statues. The apparently endless line of scattered villas stretching along the coast were here clustered in groups like little hamlets, forming suburbs outside the suburbs, and further on stood isolated in the luxuriant verdure of gardens and shrubbery. With the simple aid of a field-glass Marsh recognized everything, palaces, villas, suburbs, one after the other.
"There is San Pier d'Arena," he said, handing the glass to Yvonne and her husband, "and there are Cornegliano and Sestri to the left. To the right you can see San Francesco d'Albaro, Quarto, Quinto, San Mario Ligure, the Villa Gropallo, the Villa Croce."
"Why, Commodore, there is another trade you can turn to the day your pockets are empty," said Madame de Chésy, laughingly. "You can become cicerone."
"Oh," said Marsh, "it is the easiest thing in the world. When I see a place that I cannot recognize or that I do not know, I feel as though I were blind."
"Ah! You are not like me," cried Chésy. "I never could understand a map, and yet that has not prevented me getting a lot of amusement out of my travels.—Believe me, my dear fellow, we are right not to trouble about such things; we have sailors on sea and coachmen on land to attend to them!"
While this conversation was going on at the bow, Florence Marsh was aft trying to instil a little courage into Andryana Bonnacorsi. The future Vicomtesse de Corancez would not even glance at the town, but remained with her eyes looking fixedly at the vessel's wake.
"I feel convinced," she said with a sigh, "that Genoa will be fatal to me; 'Genova prende e non rende,' as we Italians say."