Barfleur clambered to safety up a cracked wall of the ruin and from his dizzy height eyed her calmly and bade her “Run along, now.” But it was like King Canute bidding the sea to retreat, till she had successfully taken toll of us. Meanwhile we stared in delight at the Mediterranean, at the olive groves, the distant shepherds, at the lovely blue vistas and the pale threads of roads.

We were so anxious to get to Nice in time for dinner, and so opposed to making our way by the long dusty road which lay down the mountain, that we decided to make a short cut of it and go down the rocky side of the hill by a foot-wide path which was pointed out to us by the village priest, a haggard specimen of a man who, in thin cassock and beggarly shoes and hat, paraded before his crumbling little church door. We were a noble company, if somewhat out of the picture, as we piled down this narrow mountaineer’s track—Barfleur in a brilliant checked suit and white hat, and Sir Scorp in very smart black. My best yellow shoes (ninety francs in Paris) lent a pleasing note to my otherwise inconspicuous attire, and gave me some concern, for the going was most rough and uncertain.

We passed shepherds tending sheep on sharp slopes, a donkey-driver making his way upward with three donkeys all heavily laden, an umbrella-tree sheltering a peasant so ancient that he must have endured from Grecian days, and olive groves whose shadows were as rich as that bronze which time has favored with its patina. It seemed impossible that half way between Monte Carlo and Nice—those twin worlds of spendthrift fashion and pampered vice—should endure a scene so idyllic. The Vale of Arcady is here; all that art could suggest or fancy desire, a world of simple things. Such scenes as this, remarked Sir Scorp, were favored by his great artistic admiration—Daubigny.

We found a railway station somewhere, and then we got to Nice for dinner. Once more a soul-stirring argument between Barfleur and Sir Scorp. We would take tea at Rumpelmeyer’s—we would not take tea at Rumpelmeyer’s. We would dine at The Regence; we would not dine at The Regence. We would pay I-forget-how-many louis and enter the baccarat chambers of the Casino; we would not do anything of the sort. It was desired by Barfleur that I should see the wonders of the sea-walk with the waves spraying the protecting wall. It was desired by Scorp that I should look in all the jewelry shop windows with him and hear him instruct in the jeweler’s art. How these matters were finally adjusted is lost in the haze of succeeding impressions. We did have tea at Rumpelmeyer’s, however—a very commonplace but bright affair—and then we loitered in front of shop windows where Sir Scorp pointed out really astounding jewels offered to the public for fabulous sums. One great diamond he knew to have been in the possession of the Sultan of Turkey, and you may well trust his word and his understanding. A certain necklace here displayed had once been in his possession and was now offered at exactly ten times what he had originally sold it for. A certain cut steel brooch—very large and very handsome—was designed by himself, and was first given as a remembrance to a friend. Result—endless imitation by the best shops. He dallied over rubies and emeralds, suggesting charming uses for them. And then finally we came to the Casino—the Casino Municipale—with its baccarat chambers, its great dining-rooms, its public lounging-room with such a world of green wicker chairs and tables as I have never seen. The great piers at Atlantic City are not so large. Being the height of the season, it was of course filled to overflowing by a brilliant throng—cocottes and gamblers drawn here from all parts of Europe; and tourists of all nationalities.

Sir Scorp, as usual, in his gentle but decided way, raised an argument concerning what we should have for dinner. The mere suggestion that it should be canard à la presse and champagne threw him into a dyspeptic chill. “I will not pay for it. You can spend your money showing off if you choose; but I will eat a simple meal somewhere else.”

“Oh, no,” protested Barfleur. “We are here for a pleasant evening. I think it important that Dreiser should see this. It need not be canard à la presse. We can have sole and a light Burgundy.”

So sole it was, and a light Burgundy, and a bottle of water for Sir Scorp.

CHAPTER XXVIII
NICE

Not having as yet been in the Cirque privé at Monte Carlo, I was perhaps unduly impressed by the splendor of the rooms devoted to gambling in this amazingly large casino. There were eight hundred or a thousand people all in evening clothes, who had paid a heavy price for the mere privilege of entering, and were now gathered about handsome green-covered mahogany tables under glittering and ornate electroliers, playing a variety of carefully devised gambling games with a fervor that at times makes martyrs in other causes. To a humble-minded American person like myself, unused to the high world of fashion, this spectacle was, to say the least, an interesting one. Here were a dozen nationalities represented by men and women whose hands were manicured to perfection, whose toilets were all that a high social occasion might require, their faces showing in every instance a keen understanding of their world and how it works. Here in Nice, if you walk away from these centers of social perfection, where health and beauty and sophistication and money abound, the vast run of citizens are as poverty-stricken as any; but this collection of nobility and gentry, of millionaires, adventurers, intellectual prostitutes and savage beauties is recruited from all over the world. I hold that is something to see.