The life of the Prince and the Princess became at Nice what it had been in Paris during the early days of their marriage.  Visitors flocked to their house.  All that the colony could reckon of well-known Parisians and foreigners of high repute presented themselves at the villa.  The fetes recommenced.  They gave receptions three times a week; the other evenings Serge went to the Cercle.

This absorbing life had gone on for two months.  It was the beginning of February, and already nature was assuming a new appearance under the influence of spring.  One evening, three people—­two gentlemen and a lady—­stepped out of a carriage at the villa gates, and found themselves face to face with a traveller who had come on foot.  Two exclamations broke out simultaneously.

“Marechal!” “Monsieur Savinien!”

“You! at Nice?  And by what miracle?”

“A miracle which makes you travel fifteen leagues an hour in exchange for a hundred and thirty-three francs first-class, and is called the Marseilles express!”

“I beg your pardon, my dear friend.  I have not introduced you to Monsieur and Mademoiselle Herzog.”

“I have already had the honor of meeting Mademoiselle Herzog at Madame Desvarennes’s,” said Marechal, bowing to the young girl, without appearing to notice the father.

“You were going to the villa?” asked Savinien.  “We, too, were going.  But how is my aunt?  When did you leave her?”

“I have not left her.”

“What’s that you say?”

“I say that she is here.”

Savinien let his arms drop in profound consternation to show how difficult it was for him to believe what was going on.  Then, in a faint treble voice, he said: 

“My aunt!  At Nice!  Promenade des Anglais!  That’s something more wonderful than the telephone and phonograph!  If you had told me that the Pantheon had landed one fine night on the banks of the Paillon, I should not be more astonished.  I thought Madame Desvarennes was as deeply rooted in Paris as the Colonne Vendome!  But tell me, what is the object of this journey?”

“A freak.”

“Which manifested itself—­”

“Yesterday morning at breakfast.  Pierre Delarue, who is going to finish his business in Algeria, and then settle in France, came to say ‘Good-by’ to Madame Desvarennes.  A letter arrived from the Princess.  She commenced reading it, then all at once she exclaimed ’Cayrol and his wife arrived at Nice two days ago!’ Pierre and I were astonished at the tone in which she uttered these words.  She was lost in thought for a few moments, then she said to Pierre:  ’You are leaving tonight for Marseilles?  Well, I shall go with you.  You will accompany me to Nice.’  And turning toward me, she added:  ’Marechal, pack up your portmanteau.  I shall take you with me."’

While speaking, they had walked across the garden, and reached the steps leading to the villa.

“Nothing is easier than to explain this sudden journey,” remarked Mademoiselle Herzog.  “On learning that Monsieur and Madame Cayrol were at Nice with the Princess, Madame Desvarennes must have felt how very lonely she was in Paris.  She had a longing to be near them, and started.”