They descend several steps to another part of the cemetery, lying in terraces on the mountain slope. On that level plot the tombs are leveled off even with the soil, with slabs of stone protected by low rectangular fences of chain, or simply bordered with flowers. An æsthetic instinct seems to explain the sparing use of ornaments here. From these mournful esplanades of death one can see a great expanse of green coast, dotted with the white of villas and towns; the rose-colored Alps, the capes of purple rock, the deep intense blue of the Mediterranean, and the soft limpid blue of a cloudless sky. And the graves seem to smile at all this splendor of Nature.
The Colonel searches among them, reading the names.
"Here, Marquis."
He points to a slab with a simple inscription: "Mary Lewis."
"Just like a bird, your Highness. One morning at dawn they found her poor little body dead on the hospital cot. She hadn't cried out, she hadn't complained; she departed as she had lived. The nurses say that the face was smiling. Her body was as light as a feather."
Around the tomb several wreaths were turning black, as though scorched by fire. Toledo seeks among these offerings of the dead woman's companions, until he points to a handful of fresh roses, which are beginning to decay.
"They must be from Lord Lewis," he goes on to say. "When things go badly in the Casino, he comes up to see his niece. Your Highness must know, of course, that with the death of Lady Lewis, he is now a Lord—really a Lord."
The Prince shrugs his shoulders. To think of human vanities in a place like this, which makes all earthly worries seem grotesque!
Don Marcos guesses his impatience, and as they descend two more terraces, he goes on explaining.
"The English woman died before the other; that is why they buried her farther up. So many people have died in the last few months!"