Lizzie

11: Cannes — 1890

They left for the Riviera on August 26, a Wednesday, and although they arrived at the rail station a full hour before the scheduled departure of the express, there were nonetheless great crowds milling about, and the consequent confusion Alison claimed was to be expected at any French terminus.

“These people cannot bear to see any member of the family departing without arranging a bon voyage gathering of monstrous proportions,” she said as they waited in line to purchase their tickets. “One witnesses what appears to be a general exodus caused by a revolution or a plague, only to discover that but a sole member of the family is leaving, and the rest are here en masse only to wave the pilgrim tearfully on his way.”

They nonetheless managed to have their luggage weighed and tagged, and were walking leisurely toward their wagon-lit by a quarter of eleven, fifteen minutes before the scheduled departure. “During the season, of course, one can take a train direct from London,” Alison said, “but I assure you this is by far the best time of the year to enjoy the pleasures the Riviera has to offer.” The journey to Marseilles, she said, would occupy the better part of fifteen hours, and from thence to Cannes yet another four. If all went well, they should arrive at the villa sometime before lunch tomorrow, “A tiring enough trip, but imagine, dear Lizzie, what it was like for us before they put on sleeping cars only seven years ago!”

They entered the car at one end of it, stepping into an enclosed vestibule and then walking past the ladies’ dressing room, its door open to reveal a water closet and a lavatory over which was hanging a mirror that reflected yet another mirror on the wall opposite. There were four divided compartments opening off the corridor, two of them containing single berths, the remaining two fitted with seats that converted into double berths at night. Their own double compartment was at the far end of the corridor, near the gentlemen’s lavatory and water closet. It was not quite so commodious as Lizzie’s shipboard accommodations had been, but it was nonetheless carpeted and richly appointed, its plush-upholstered seats comfortably enclosed by wood-paneled walls, its large windows affording a splendid view of the French countryside.

Some three miles outside of Paris, they passed Charenton (“Where the loonies are kept,” Alison remarked drily) and did not stop for the first time — and then for only five minutes — until they reached Melun, some twenty-eight miles further on. The train rolled into the valley of the Seine, lushly verdant in the bright August sunshine. They took their lunch, and later their dinner, in the elaborately decorated restaurant car. Night had fallen upon the countryside. Outside there were only the lights in the farmhouses now, and then not even those. They were both ready to retire long before their train pulled into Tonnere.

An attendant miraculously transformed their seats into the bed upon which they would sleep that night, rotating the seats a full 180 degrees upon their axes so that they formed a berth at right angles to the route of travel, the bedclothes already upon it and enclosed in a stout oiled silk that prevented them from slipping to the floor. As the attendant made up their bed, first Alison and then Lizzie — both wearing their daytime garments, and reluctant to traipse down the corridor in nightdresses and robes — separately went to the ladies’ dressing room. When Lizzie returned to the compartment, Alison was lying naked on the bed.

She closed the door quickly behind her, realizing with a start that she had never seen her friend completely disrobed before this moment; in the Paris hotel, there had been the vast salle de bain, and Alison had always retreated there when performing her nighttime and morning toilettes. She was rather more beautiful nude than Lizzie could have guessed. The only light in the compartment came from an electrified lamp over the bed, diffused by a translucent rose-colored shade. Her blond hair was spread loose on the pillow under her head. Her eyes were closed, her exquisite face utterly serene. She lay in repose with her arms at her sides, her slender body softly illuminated, her breasts rather larger than she had demeaningly described them, the aureoles and nipples a pale pink softened by the rosy glow of the overhead lamp. The hair at the joining of her long legs seemed extravagantly lush, a wild golden garden — Lizzie looked away, and turned to lock the door behind her.

“Forgive me,” she said.

“Whatever on earth for?” Alison asked.

“I didn’t mean to... waken you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

Lizzie had still not turned from the door.

“Are you having trouble with that dicey lock?” Alison asked.

“No, it seems to be secure now.”

“Then hurry to bed,” Alison said, “or we shall have precious little sleep before the thunder and bellow of Marseilles. You’ll find it a trifle stuffy in here, I don’t think you shall need a nightdress. We might do best, in fact, to sleep without a cover.”

Lizzie turned from the door. Without so much as glancing again at Alison, she clicked off the lamp over the bed, undressed in the dark, and then — despite Alison’s suggestion — pulled a nightdress over her head.

She felt quite warm and flushed lying beside Alison in the dark, the wheels of the train clattering beneath them, but she did not remove the nightdress. When the train roared into the Marseilles station sometime in the empty hours of the night, she was drenched in perspiration, and wondered if she might be suffering a relapse.

They had telegraphed ahead from Paris, but the Newbury coachman was not waiting at the Cannes railroad station for them and Alison was beside herself with anger. She engaged a porter to carry their luggage to a waiting carriage, snapping her fingers imperiously, shouting instructions in rapid French, and then settling back beside Lizzie and sighing deeply as the carriage got under way.

“I can never stay agitated for long in this delightful spot,” she said. “The telegram must have gone astray, wouldn’t you say? I shouldn’t put it past the French. Either that, or there was some sort of domestic crisis which that financial wizard was unable to resolve.” She was referring, of course, to Albert. Lizzie wondered, suddenly, if she spoke of him in this fashion to all her other friends.

“You shall find the town utterly deserted,” Alison said. “Even the cheaper hotels and pensions here near the railway station are abandoned during the summertime.” The carriage was passing a garden-enclosed establishment with a sign advising that it was the Pension Mon Plaisir. “ ‘My Pleasure,’ indeed,” Alison said. “It’s probably crawling with vermin and lice. You’ll find your better hotels fronting the beach east and west of the town center, although some visitors prefer the ones inland, which are less conducive to wakefulness — did you sleep well last night, Lizzie?”

“Restlessly,” Lizzie said.

“Ah, yes, the compartment was close, wasn’t it? Beachfront or hillside, you shall find them all moribund at this time of year. The moment there are lilacs in England, don’t you know, it’s simply time to go home. Never mind the fact that London often has snow in May. And the instant the British depart, of course, the links and the tennis courts and the casino and most of the restaurants shut down tighter than crypts. Which is exactly how I prefer them. I love it here during the summertime!”

The air was indeed balmy at this late hour of the morning, and the scent of oranges wafted in through the open carriage windows as they made their way slowly through the town center and then began moving steadily inland on a gradually sloping road, leaving the broad blue stripe of the Mediterranean behind them. Higher and higher they climbed. “Their villas are scattered all about town,” Alison said. “The Duke of Albany’s, who died six years ago, the Villa Edelweiss, owned by Mr. Saville and visited by the queen — when was it? 1887? Well, quite recently at any rate. The Rothschild villa, and Lord Brougham’s — we passed his statue on the Allées de la Liberté, did you notice it? Between the Hôtel de Ville and the Splendide? He died two years ago, but he’s the acknowledged founder of modern-day Cannes. Before him the place was an insignificant little fishing village — oh, would that it were again! That was back in 1834, dear Lizzie, long before either you or I were born. We’re almost there, be patient, I know the ride is bumpy.”

It seemed at first that they were only moving further inland, yet more distant from the sea. The woods through which the road wound were white with myrtle, scattered here and there with the vibrant red of geraniums. They passed through a stand of pines, and then a copse of tropical growth that ended abruptly against an escarpment of vine-covered rock. The carriage turned a bend around the boulders, and Lizzie caught a glimpse of the cobalt sea again, glistening with pinpoint pricks of sunlight, framed with a dense and fragrant white floral growth that began again on the southern side of the rock formation. The carriage rounded another turn in the road, the horse struggling with the steep incline, and suddenly she saw the house.

Where Alison’s home in London had seemed a pile of structured gray granite softened only somewhat by the Grecian-style columns supporting the entrance portico, Lizzie saw now a low and sprawling array of interconnected stucco buildings, painted a white that blindingly reflected the rays of the sun. Tropical plants grew low against the walls, vines climbed toward the sun, the exotic fragrance of alien blooms wafted through the open carriage windows and mingled with the aroma of dust to create an oddly heady scent.

“Kensington is Albert’s,” Alison murmured beside her. “This is mine.”

The cabman stepped down and opened the carriage doors on either side for them. The thick entrance doors to the villa were set back in a shadowed arch and fashioned of a pale wood diagonally joined, studded with great black iron bolts and strapped with massive black hinges. The doors were wide open, and through them Lizzie could see a tiled interior court with a tiled center fountain and surrounding beds of flowers, small blooming trees in tubs and tiled columns supporting a gallery that ran clear around the upper story. A vagrant breeze idled through the courtyard as they entered, carrying on it the unmistakably salty aroma of the sea.

And now came Moira, dressed quite differently here in the south of France than she had been in London, wearing a full white skirt and petticoats, a lace-edged blouse and an apron embroidered in reds and blues and yellows that echoed the blooms everywhere in the courtyard.

“Miz Newbury, mum,” she said, beaming, “welcome! We’ve missed you,” and curtsied, and shouted “George! Come see to the luggage! Welcome, Miss Borden,” she said, and curtsied again, and then picked up her skirts and went clattering over the tiled floor, disappearing through an arched doorway, shouting “George!” as she went.

“Come,” Alison said proudly. “Let me show you.”

More arched doorways at the far end of the courtyard opened onto a terrace floored with orange tiles, and beyond that was the most luxuriant garden Lizzie had ever seen, blooming with jasmine and sunflowers, fuchsias and nasturtiums, chrysanthemums and dahlias, zinnias, asters and other flowers that were entirely strange to her but that spread a fragrant scent on the air. The garden sloped off onto a vast grassy lawn which the Newbury gardener, wearing a French workman’s blue smock, was watering down with a hose. Beyond the garden and the lawn, far below, was the pristine sea. The sky above it was a paler cloudless blue. The air was balmy; it kissed her face and caused a smile to appear on her mouth.

“Ah, there’s my husband,” Alison said, and called, “Albert! No welcome? After all your fussing, I should have expected a band, at least.”

He was sitting in a wicker chair in the sun, reading an English-language newspaper, wearing white trousers and shirt, white shoes and a straw hat with an overly large brim. “Well, well,” he said, putting down the newspaper and rising. “Better late than never, eh?”

“Never might have been more appropriate as regards George,” Alison said. “Where was he? Didn’t you receive my telegram?”

“George has sprained his ankle,” Albert said, coming to where they were standing. “More than likely in pursuit of these comely Cannois virgins. You’ll be fortunate if he can struggle your luggage into the house.” He kissed his wife perfunctorily on the cheek, took Lizzie’s hand, lowered his lips to it and said, “Was your journey a pleasant one?” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “You look terribly pale, Lizzie, we shall have to set you out in the sun. Cook has been gone all morning,” he said to Alison, “haggling with these French brigands over tonight’s meal. Her French leaves something to be desired, to say the least. You must inform her that there is no such thing as a neuter article in this beastly language, and that the locals take offense at her casual intermingling of the ‘le’ and ‘la’. So then, have you had lunch? I know cook has prepared a cold tray, and I’m famished myself, having spent an energetic morning reading this sorry excuse for a newspaper. Shall I ask Moira to set it out while you both change into something more suitable to the climate? You shall suffocate in those heavy garments. Breathe in deeply of the sea air, Lizzie. I’m told it does wonders for all the cripples and invalids who make their permanent residence here. Will you show Lizzie to her room? I know Moira spent all morning tidying it. There should be fresh lemonade in a carafe on the bedstand, though I fear ice is a virtual impossibility here — as it is in England as well. I know how terribly fond of ice you Americans are. Well, do get hopping, both of you, or I shall die of starvation.”

“Oh, how forceful you are!” Alison said, rolling her eyes. “Come, Lizzie, before he gets truly cross. He’s a bear when he’s hungry.”

They came through the courtyard again — she noticed for the first time that several of the tubbed trees were lemon trees — and climbed a curving flight of tiled steps to the gallery above. There were orchids hanging in clay pots everywhere, and Alison stopped at several of them, examining the blooms, nodding in apparent approval of the gardener’s care. On the western end of the gallery, overlooking the gardens and the lawn and the sea far below, she led Lizzie first into the master bedroom and then opened a connecting door in an archway, and showed Lizzie the room she would be occupying.

As promised, a carafe of lemonade stood on the bedstand, its pale yellow echoing the color of the spread on the bed and the cushions on the chairs. The windows were wide open to the air outside. A tiny spider tirelessly spun a glistening web in the branches of the orange tree just outside the window. There was the overpowering scent of the oranges themselves and the muskier fragrance of the flowers in the garden, and saturating all, the omnipresent aroma of the sea.

“We shall be right next door to each other,” Alison said, “should you need anything. Please feel free to wander wherever you choose. The house isn’t quite so cavernous as the one in London, and you won’t get lost, I’m certain. The idea, of course, was to keep it spacious and airy, and I think Geoffrey has succeeded admirably, don’t you?”

“Did he design it?” Lizzie asked, surprised.

“Down to the last nail,” Alison said.

“And the furnishings and decorations?”

“I take full responsibility for those. Had I left it to Albert, we should have had a replica of our London mausoleum, as so many people here do. I took the matter into my own...”

“I thought the London house was beautiful,” Lizzie said.

“Well, thank you, you must be sure to tell Albert. I wanted something more fanciful here though — bright and cheerful and gay. Why does one come to the Riviera, after all, if not for the sun and the sense of freedom it allows? On Sundays, when the lot of them are gone, you’ll find me lying shamelessly naked on the lawn. We’re quite protected from prying eyes here, and with the servants away, who is there to comment on the pagan manners of the mistress? You must feel free to dress however casually you wish during your stay here. I myself favor white with a touch of embroidery here and there — you saw Moira’s apron? Undoubtedly purchased from a shrewd French peasant who charged the sky for it. You need not worry about petticoats or frills or even shoes, for that matter. I wander about barefoot more often than not — but do be careful of bees in the clover! And you must be careful as well to wear something long sleeved at dusk, lest the mosquitoes devour you alive. They’re dreadful here, the size of falcons and as bloodthirsty as vampires. In town, of course, we shall have to appear the proper ladies, but here at the villa we may set aside any notions of convention or formality or custom or even time. I’m inviting you, in short, to abandon yourself completely to the sun and the sea and the fragrant air and to feel, dear Lizzie, as perfectly at home here as I myself am.”

“Thank you,” Lizzie said softly. “I don’t think I’ve gone about barefoot since I was a little girl.”

“Exactly the point, my dear. Barefooted, bare-arsed, however you wish — and please don’t blush.”

“I’m long past blushing at anything you say,” Lizzie said, and smiled.

“Good. Let’s change our clothes and hurry down to lunch before Albert eats the tablecloth. If you haven’t packed anything suitably hedonistic, just give a shout, and I shall try to fit you out. You won’t have time for a proper bath, but there should be hot water in the basin there, if Moira’s properly prepared the room. We shall have good French wine with our lunch, so I’d ignore the tepid lemonade, were I you. You can find your way down to the terrace, can’t you? I shall meet you there. Lizzie,” she said, and hesitated. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“And I,” Lizzie said.

In the evening they sat on the terrace in a circle of illumination provided by the oil lamps, and listened to the chatter of the insects in the grass and in the surrounding woods. The oil had been liberally laced with citronella, and its scent hovered on the air, though Lizzie wasn’t certain it was having much effect on the mosquitoes. She had been bitten twice since dinner time, once on the ankle and another time — through her skirt — on the thigh. Albert avuncularly warned her not to scratch the bites as that would only irritate them further. He himself seemed immune to attack. “My meat’s too sour for them,” he explained. “They prefer the sweeter stuff. Besides, I’m English.”

“He’s complimenting you, I believe,” Alison said.

“I am,” Albert said, and filled their glasses with wine again.

It had grown colder than she expected it would. The afternoon sun had been so deliciously hot, but now she felt the slightest bit chilled in the night air, even though she had thrown a shawl over her shoulders. Alison, on the other hand, showed not the slightest sign of discomfort, though she was wearing only a wide peasant skirt and embroidered blouse; for all her warnings about the fearsome mosquitoes, she was barefooted, and the blouse was sleeveless.

“We’ve been invited to lunch at the Ashtons on Sunday,” Albert said.

“I hope you declined,” Alison said.

“I certainly did not,” Albert said. “I rather fancy Mildred. Besides, it’ll be my last day here.”

“Your last day? What on earth do you mean?”

“I’m off to Berlin on Monday.”

“You will have to go alone then,” Alison said.

“I hadn’t expected you to attend a business...”

“I meant to the Ashtons. Lizzie and I shall be taking the sun. I refuse to give up my one day of solitude for the sake of listening to Mildred blather on about the latest Parisian fashions.”

“I’ve already begged off for you twice,” Albert said, “awaiting your...”

“You will simply have to beg off for me again then, won’t you?” Alison said. “You can explain that I’m caring for a convalescent friend. Benjamin should quite understand convalescence. He’s been convalescing from asthma for as long as I’ve known him.”

“There’ll be some Russians, I’m told.”

“I can do without Russians as well,” Alison said. “Did you want to meet some Russians, Lizzie?”

“Well, I...”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy that sober lot, nattering on in dreadful English. I should sooner listen to the drone of the mosquitoes.”

“They do seem out in force tonight,” Albert said. “Are you being eaten, Lizzie?”

“Not at the moment,” Lizzie said.

“Good, perhaps the bloody citronella’s working. I have no faith in it myself. So what shall I tell them?”

“I’ve already told you what to tell them.”

“They’ll want to meet her. They swarm about Americans, you know.”

“Not this American,” Alison said. “Unless, of course... how rude of me, Lizzie. Do you think you might enjoy lunch with the Ashtons? They’re just down the road; you saw the roof of their villa on the approach. It’s grandly called La Villa Bella, in the Italian fashion — I believe there is some Italian in her, isn’t there, Albert? Away back somewhere? Lord knows she speaks it as an Indian elephant might, but I’m sure I heard that her grandfather or her great-great-grandfather — well, who cares, really? Lizzie, forgive me, of course we shall lunch with the Ashtons this Sunday. And Albert, we must show her the town tomorrow, and perhaps take her to Monte Carlo on Saturday night — have you ever gambled, Lizzie?”

“No, never.”

“It can be fun,” Alison said.

“Only if you win,” Albert said.

“Even if you lose,” Alison said. “When did you say you were leaving for Germany?”

“On the first. This coming Monday.”

“How thoughtless of you! You know we shall be needing an escort. How long will you be gone this time?”

“Through most of September.”

“My, my, there must be millions involved.”

“I wish,” Albert said.

“Well, dear, do make scads and scads of money,” Alison said.

“I think I’ll go up to bed now,” Albert said. “Will you be coming along soon?”

“In a bit.”

“Excuse me then,” he said, rising. “I hope your bites stop annoying you,” he said to Lizzie. “We have some sort of salve, don’t we, Allie? You might let her have some before she retires.”

“I don’t know of any salve,” Alison said.

“Ask cook, she’ll know,” Albert said. “Good night, Lizzie. You’ll enjoy the Ashtons, they’re...”

“He can be so persuasive,” Alison said, and rolled her eyes.

“They’re not a bad lot, actually,” he said, and sighed. “Well then, good night. You’ll do with a blanket, Lizzie. It’ll get even more chilly during the night.” He hesitated, seemed about to say something more, and then simply left the terrace and walked into the courtyard. She could hear his footsteps on the stairway leading to the courtyard gallery.

“I shall be glad to see him gone,” Alison said.

Despite Alison’s promises of a largely deserted out-of-season resort, Lizzie had expected the town to be somewhat more bustling than she found it to be. Even the flower market was a disappointment, although Albert grudgingly admitted that the variety offered here was more extensive than was to be found at Nice’s similar market — “Although Nice is a great deal livelier on the whole, which may be why the Prince of Wales much prefers it.”

“Perhaps the prince finds the Niçoises cocottes more to his liking,” Alison said, and glanced sidelong at him.

“Well, you’ll find the demi-mondaine here as well, I’m sure,” Albert said.

“Though not in such overwhelming numbers,” Alison said.

“Well, wherever there are men on the loose...” Albert said, and let the sentence trail.

They were walking in brilliant sunshine through the Old Town now, heading for the breakwater and the port. Everywhere about them, there were Frenchmen in shirtsleeves, sitting in the sunshine and sipping beer at gaily painted tables. Lizzie had expected the women to be wearing traditional Provençal costumes, but again she was disappointed. In the Fall River Library, she had thumbed through volume after volume with full-color drawings of women in chintz skirts stitched with intricate geometric or floral designs, women in needle-quilted cretonne, women wearing printed shawls and black hats and white aprons. Here, instead, the women scurried along in cheap models of fashionable Parisian dresses, wearing artificial silk stockings and high heels, bangled like gypsies and sporting pearls Lizzie was certain were fake. As though reading her mind, Alison said, “Gone is the costume du pays, more’s the pity.”

“I hate this place in the summertime,” Albert said. “In fact, I don’t much care for it at any time. To be perfectly honest, France itself — all of France — leaves me decidedly cold.”

“He much prefers Germany,” Alison said, with a smile. “Don’t you, Albert?”

“With the Germans one always knows where one stands,” Albert said. “The French are a devious lot.”

“How fortunate, then, that you’ll be leaving for Germany on Monday,” Alison said, and again glanced sidelong at him.

“Yes,” he said drily.

They came past the casino, closed now, on the east end of the Old Town, and strolled onto the Promenade de la Croisette, palms and plantains everywhere about, and — wafted on the brisk sea air — the scent of a white flower Alison described as a tuberose, native to Mexico, but thriving here in the genial climate. There was the scent of jasmine as well, mysteriously lingering, suffusing the air, the combined aromas as exotic and as lulling as the somnolent town itself. The generous beach behind the casino was dotted with a handful of gaily colored umbrellas, and children in bathing costumes built sand castles and challenged the mild surge of the sea. They walked along the shore to the Restaurant de la Reserve, also closed, and there hired a carriage and pair for which Albert paid the cocher twenty francs after haggling him down from the twenty-five he demanded; this was, after all, the summertime.

“Not all of them speak English, you know,” Albert said, obviously proud of his bargaining in the native tongue.

“How happy that some of them understand l’idiome britannique,” Alison said.

“Yes, some of our countrymen do fracture the language,” Albert answered, blithely unaware of her sarcasm — or perhaps simply ignoring it. Lizzie felt, all at once, that Albert was — for all his exterior bluffness — a very sad man. The thought saddened her as well, and she sat in silence as the carriage made its way along the coastal road to the Golfe Juan, and then up the valley to Vallauris, some two hundred fifty feet above the sea.

The gentle hills were covered with heather.

“Reminds me of home,” Albert said, and again Lizzie felt this sense of ineffable sadness about him.

There was mimosa everywhere, growing along the roadside ditches. On foot they crossed a bridge just a little below Massier’s pottery and then ascended a broad dusty road to the Observatoire, where they looked out over the Alps and the country about Bordighera toward the coast. There were few visitors beside themselves.

They ate omelettes aux pommes de terre frites in a small restaurant in the town itself, forsaking the heavier fare offered at the Observatoire, and although Lizzie was enormously attracted to the flawless quality of the pottery being offered everywhere for sale, she wisely decided that buying any would be risking certain damage on the long journey ahead. She still had no real concept of when she would be rejoining her friends, but surely it would be within a week or so. Alison, after all, had only extended her invitation for a fortnight.

They returned to Cannes via the Corniche, down onto the Boulevard de Californie, and thence to the villa itself. Oddly, for the day had been a leisurely paced and tranquil one, she felt exhausted.

The Russians had been to Monte Carlo the day before.

There were two of them at the Ashton villa that Sunday afternoon. Both of them were titled — one a count, the other a baron. Both were wearing beards and mustaches and white uniforms hung with medals. They both owned villas in Nice, but they had never before visited the Riviera during the summertime. The overseeing of extensive renovations to the count’s villa was the cause of their presence here now, at such a “not so gay time”, as he put it in his heavily accented English. The count’s name was Popov. Lizzie found this amusing, but she managed to hide her mirth behind her fan. He was much more at home in French than he was in English, but in deference to his hostess and the other guests — all of them English, with the exception of Lizzie — he struggled with their language, “so full of too many vords,” he said.

The baron’s last name was unpronounceable. He suggested to Lizzie that she simply use his given name, Yakovlevich, which she found equally difficult. His English was only a trifle better than Popov’s, and he frequently lapsed into French when describing their excursion to Monte Carlo in the “uff sizzon”, as he called it.

“There vas so few pipple at les tables, you know? Why they are remain open at all is le grand mystère, n’est-ce pas? You know?” He had spent a pleasant hour or two shooting pigeons in the company of some Englishmen on the green beneath the casino terrace, and then had returned to the roulette table, where a young woman was in distress over what had just happened to her. “I am sure they have chitt her, you know?” he said. “She have lost all but twenty francs. Elle lui jette les vingt francs... she is throw the money to le croupier, and she say, ‘Le numéro quatre,’ the number four, you know? Lui, feignant de ne pas entendre... He pretends not to hear, you know? He places her bet instead on le zéro. La bille venait justement de partir. The ball has already start to go, yes? The lady says she does not understand. Le croupier, avec un geste de mauvaise humeur... he is in a bad temper now, the croupier, and so he push the piece au numéro quatre, to the number four, as she wishes. Au même instant, son collègue... in the same time, his colleague announces le zéro, where the ball has stop.”

“Why, they were trying to help her, not cheat her!” Albert said, fascinated by the tale.

“You believe so?” the baron said.

“Well, certainly,” Albert said. “Everyone knows the wheels are manipulated. They have a gadget of some sort under the table, and they have absolute control over the ball.”

“It is what I say, no?” the baron said. “They have chitt her. I much prefer le trente et quarante, but vhere vas there pipple to play? Abandonné, monsieur, complètement abandonné.”

The terrace upon which they sat was the least cluttered spot in the Ashton villa. One would have thought that every stick of furniture, every painting, every piece of bric-a-brac in the brimming drawing room, as Mildred Ashton insisted on calling it, had been transported directly from their London home. Whereas Lizzie had found the jumble in Alison’s Kensington house somehow — well, cozy wasn’t the proper word... enclosing? comforting? — such a decorative scheme seemed entirely out of place here on the Riviera. Equally unsuitable was the fashionable clothing all of the guests wore; Lizzie was beginning to appreciate the more casual costumes, sometimes resembling little more than a petticoat and chemise, Alison wore in her own home. There was a sense of artificiality here, of conversation too polite, of manners too carefully rehearsed, all out of keeping with the brilliance of the sunshine, the distant murmur of the sea, the fragrance of blossoms on the salt-laden air.

Popov was explaining that a countrywoman of his had lived in Nice for a long time, had indeed begun her recently published journal there when she was but a child and “madly in luff” with the Duke of Hamilton. Lizzie realized all at once that he was talking about Marie Bashkirtseff, whose studio Alison had taken her to in Paris. (That incisive face, the disdainful, determined and inquisitive look about the eyes.) Popov was quoting from the published diary now, telling of how Miss Bashkirtseff had once hurled a plate of pasta to the floor and then set fire to a chair, “perhaps vun or two chairs”, because an expected invitation to a ball had not arrived. “She vas a little bit dérangée, I tink,” Popov said. “She writes one time... wrote?... about she runs to throw a clock in the sea. Fou, sans aucun doute, n’est-ce pas? But, oh, how she luffs this Nice! She says, ‘Nice is my country. Nice made me to grow. Nice gaves to me the health and the beautiful couleur. C’est magnifique, Nice.’ ”

After lunch, which had been served rather late, the men retired to a room of the villa Mildred had set aside for her husband’s “enjoyment of cigars”, and the ladies sat alone on the terrace and asked Lizzie innumerable questions about America and about her recent visit to Paris, and seemed charmed by every word she uttered. They were properly sympathetic when they learned of her bout with influenza (“A horrid disease,” Mildred said) and agreed that a little time in the sun here would do wonders for her.

“But you’re so fair, Miss Borden,” one of the ladies said. “Won’t you burn to a crisp? With your complexion and that red hair? She has beautiful hair, hasn’t she, Alison?”

“Yes,” Alison said.

She had been oddly quiet throughout the afternoon, offering little by way of comment, her usual garrulity strangely checked, her spirited sarcasm entirely and mysteriously absent.

“Your American friends are always so lovely and charming,” Mildred said, and Lizzie at once thought extravagant praise was surely a British trait, and then wondered how many American friends Alison had, and how many of them had been brought here for luncheon at the Ashtons.

The men returned from their port and cigars, the afternoon lingered, the sunset over the sea was spectacular. It was not until they returned to the villa that Lizzie realized she had been bored witless by the Ashtons and all their guests, including the Russians in their dairymen uniforms and their dime-store medals.