The landau arrived at the quay where the yacht's dingy was awaiting the travellers. Little waves were breaking against the walls. All the roadstead was agitated by the rising north wind and was a mass of tiny ripples, too small to affect the big steamers riding at anchor, but strong enough to pitch about the pleasure boats and fishing smacks. What a difference there was between this threatening gray swell that was felt even in the port, in spite of its protecting piers, and the wide mirror-like expanse of motionless sapphire which had spread before them the day before at the same hour in the open sea off Cannes! What a contrast between this cloudy sky and the azure dome that smiled down upon their departure, between this keen north wind and the perfumed sighing of the breeze yesterday!—But who thought of this? Certainly not Florence Marsh, completely happy in the possession of the archaic scalp she was taking on board. Certainly not Andryana, to whom the prospect of a night spent on shore was full of such happy promise; she was to meet her husband, and the idea of this clandestine and at the same time legitimate rendezvous after her romantic marriage had filled the loving woman with happiness. It was the first time for many years that she had forgotten her dreaded brother. Nor did Hautefeuille or his mistress notice the contrast, for the long hours of the night were to be spent together. The young man, who had fallen behind with Ely de Carlsberg, said gayly and yet tenderly, as they walked down toward the dingy of the Jenny, whose red, white, and black flag crackled in the breeze:—
"I am beginning to believe that Corancez is right about his lucky line!—And it appears to be contagious."
At the very moment he spoke, and as Ely answered him with a smile full of languor and voluptuousness, one of the sailors standing on the quay near the boat handed a large portfolio to Miss Marsh. It was the vessel's postman, who had just returned with the passengers' mail. The young girl rapidly ran through the fifteen or twenty letters.
"Here is a telegram for you, Hautefeuille," she said.
"You will see," he said to Ely, continuing his badinage, "it is good news."
He tore open the yellow slip. His visage lit up with a happy smile, and he handed the telegram to Madame de Carlsberg, saying:—
"What did I tell you?"
The despatch said simply:—
"Am leaving Cairo to-day. Shall be at Cannes Sunday or Monday at latest. Will send another telegram. So happy to see you again.
OLIVIER DU PRAT."