u Théâtre Français.

We had our meal, too, one evening at that

restaurant which is seldom even mentioned in respectable circles, the "Rat
Mort," in the Place Pigalle. Yes, with money one is seldom triste in Paris,
and I was really sorry when, in the last week of the year, after Felicita had
packed our trunks, we set out for the Riviera.

Travelling on those abominable gridirons which on the Continent are

called railways, is absolutely disgusting after our own English lines, with
their dining-cars and other comforts. Of all the railways that intersect the
Continent, the P.L.M., which has a monopoly to the Mediterranean, is the
most inconvenient, disobliging, and completely abominable. To obtain the
smallest comfort on the eighteen-hour journey between Paris and Nice, an
addition of three pounds is charged upon the first-class fare, and that for a
single night in a third-rate sleeping-car! Ulrica said it was termed the train
de luxe only because it looks swagger to travel by it. We occupied a couple
of berths in it, but agreed that the additional three pounds were ill-spent
indeed, for the badly-cooked food was absurdly dear.

Moreover, as the water for toilet purposes gave out before reaching
Lyons, we had to buy bottles of mineral water, and perform our ablutions
in a mixture of Vichy Celestins and eau-de-cologne. It was remarked by an
old and apparently experienced traveller that the water in the wagons lits is
purposely scanty in order to increase the takings of the restaurant cars; and
I certainly believed him.

For a woman young in years I have had considerable experience of

European railways, from the crawling Midi of France to the lightning
Nord; but for dirt and dearness, commend me to the great highway to the
Riviera. To take a small trunk from Paris to Nice costs more than the fare
of one's maid; while to those who do not pay for the train of luxury, but
travel in the ordinary padded horse-boxes, the journey means a couple of
days of suffocation and semi-starvation.

"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 bu