"Well," he said, "I have arranged everything. The rooms are rather high, but the view is all the more beautiful. Have you anything to do just now? Suppose we go for a walk." "How about Madame du Prat?" asked Hautefeuille. "We must give her time to get settled," replied Olivier, "and I admit that I am very glad to be alone with you for a few minutes. One can only talk when there are two. By one I mean 'us.'--If you only knew how glad I am to be with you again!" "My dear Olivier!" cried Pierre, deeply moved by the sincere accent of the remark. They took each other's hands and their glances met, as at the station. No word was spoken. In the Fioretti of St. Francis it is related how St. Louis one day, disguised as a pilgrim, came and knocked at the door of the convent of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Another saint, named Egidio, opened the door and recognized him. The king and the monk kneeled, the one before the other, and then separated without speaking. "I read his heart," said Egidio, "and he read mine." The beautiful legend is the symbol of the meeting of friends such as the two young people. When two men who know each other, who have loved each other since infancy, as Pierre and Olivier did, meet face to face again, they have no need of protestation, no need of fresh assurances of their reciprocal faithfulness, esteem, confidence, respect, devotion; all the noble virtues of male affection need no words to explain them. They shine and glow, their mere presence sufficing, like a pure and steady flame. Once again the two friends felt that they could count upon each other.--Once more they felt how closely they were united with the bonds of fraternal love. "So you were good enough to think of putting flowers in the rooms to welcome us?" said Olivier, taking his friend's arm. "I will just give orders for them to be taken up to our apartments.--Let us go now.--Not to the Croisette, eh?--If it is like what it used to be when I stayed here before, it must be intolerable. Cannes was a real 'Snobopolis' at that time, with its army of princes and prince worshippers!--I remember some lovely spots between California and Vallauris, where the scenery is almost wild, where there are big forests of pines and of oaks--with none of those grotesque feather brushes they call palms, which I hate." They were by this time leaving the hotel garden, and Du Prat pointed, as he spoke, to the alley of trees that gave its name to the fashionable caravansary. His friend began to laugh, as he replied:-- "Don't throw too much sepia over the gardens of poor Cannes. They are very excellent hotbeds for an invalid! I know something about it." This was an allusion to an old joke that Pierre had often made in their youth when he would liken the wave of bitterness that seemed to sweep over Olivier in his evil moments to the jet of black liquid projected by the cuttlefish to hide its whereabouts. Olivier also laughed at the memories the souvenir recalled. But he continued:--