The Promenade was bright as day beneath the full moon, the feathery palms waved lazily in the breeze, and the dark waves broke with musical monotony upon the pebbly beach. They had alighted at the gate of the pension where the Captain had taken up his quarters, when the Prince suggested to Liane that they should go for a stroll, as it was still early. To this she assented, and the Captain went indoors and sat alone, silent and wondering, while they crossed the deserted esplanade together and walked in the moonlight by the shore.
“So you have enjoyed yourself to-night, ma petite?” Zertho said, after they had been chatting some time.
“Immensely,” she answered. “Carnival is not fresh to me, but it is always amusing. Every Niçois enjoys it so thoroughly. I love these gay, happy, contented people who are still Italian although French. They are so different from the English.”
“You hated them once, I remember,” he observed, with a smile, pausing to light a cigarette.
“Ah! that was in the evil days. One’s enjoyment is always gauged by one’s pocket.”
“Then according to that theory I ought to have a larger measure of this world’s pleasures than the majority of people—eh?”
“You have.”
“Ah, no, Liane,” he sighed, becoming suddenly grave. “True, I have wealth, a house in Brussels, an estate in Luxembourg, a yacht in yonder port, and a villa here upon this promenade, yet there is one thing I lack to render my happiness complete.”
“What’s that?” she asked, rather surprised at the unusual tone of sadness in his voice. Her smiling lips suddenly quivered with a momentary dread—a dread of something she could not quite define.
He had paused at one of the seats at the end of the plage, and with a alight courteous wave of the hand invited her to sit. Slowly she did as she was bid, and awaited his reply.