"My dear Carmela," said Ulrica, while we were on the journey, "I've thought of a plan. Why not go to some cheap hotel, or even pension at Nice, and play at Monte Carlo with the money we save?"
I had never seen the far-famed Monte Carlo, but as the idea of economy seemed an excellent one, I at once endorsed her suggestion, and that same night we found ourselves at one of those pensions which flourish so amazingly well at Nice.
CHAPTER II
TELLS SOMETHING ABOUT LOVE
Reader, have you ever lived in an English pension on the Riviera? Have you ever inhabited a small cubicle containing a chair, a deal table, a narrow bed—with mosquito curtains—and a hung-up looking-glass, and partaken of that cheap, ill-cooked food, the stale-egg omelette and the tough biftek, served in the bare salle-à-manger by one of those seedy, unshaven waiters who appear to be specially bred for the cheap Riviera boarding-houses? Have you ever spent an evening with that mixed crowd of ascetic persons who nightly congregate in the fusty salon, play upon a cracked piano, screech old-fashioned sentimentalities, exhibit their faded finery, paste jewels and bony chests, and otherwise make the hours, following dinner absolutely hideous? If not, a week of this life will be found to be highly amusing.
"My dear," Ulrica whispered, as we followed the proprietress, a buxom Frenchwoman in black satin, along the bare, white-washed corridor to our rooms, "hotel or work-house—which?"
There was a comfortless look everywhere, even though the spread of the blue sea and the palm-planted Promenade des Anglais were magnificent parts of the view, and the warm winter sunshine streamed into our tiny rooms—chambers so small that our trunks had to be placed in the corridor.
We changed our frocks and went down to dinner, discovering the salle-à-manger by its smell. What a scene presented itself at that table d'hôte! The long table was crowded by a host of dowdy women, generally wearing caps of soiled lace and faded ribbons, with one or two dismal-looking and elderly men. Of spinsters there were not a few, and of widows many, but one and all possessed the stamp of persons of small means struggling perseveringly to obtain their fill for the ten francs par jour which they paid for their "south rooms."
As new-comers, we were directed to seats at the bottom of the table; and after we had suffered from a watery concoction which the menu described as potage, we proceeded to survey our fellow-guests in that cheap and respectable pension.
That they were severely respectable there could certainly be no doubt. There were a couple of drawling English clergymen, with their wives—typical vicars' wives who patronised their neighbours; two or three sad-faced young girls, accompanied by ascetic relatives; a young Frenchman who eyed Ulrica all the time; one or two hen-pecked husbands of the usual type to be found in such hostelries of the aged; and an old lady who sat in state at the extreme end of the table, and much amused us by her efforts at juvenility. Besides ourselves, she was apparently the only person who had a maid with her; and in order to exhibit that fact, she sent for her smelling-salts during dinner. She was long past sixty, yet dressed in a style becoming a girl of eighteen, in bright colours and lace, her fair wig being dressed in the latest Parisian style, and the wrinkles of her cheeks filled up by various creams and face powders.