Why did Olivier feel a sudden pain at his heart, followed by an inexpressible rush of melancholy, as he noticed this? He went and leaned on the window rail. He glanced over the immense horizon. He saw all the serene beauty of the Southern night, the stars that glittered in the soft, velvety blue of the sky, the bronzed golden moon whose beams played caressingly with the sea--the sea that rolled supple and vast afar off. He saw the lights of the town shining among the black masses of shrubbery in the gardens. The warm breeze enveloped him with the languorous, enthralling, enchanting odor of lemon blossom. What a divine night for the meeting of lovers! And what a divine night for a lover dreaming of his mistress, as he wandered along the solitary paths!--Was Pierre that lover? Had he gone to meet his mistress? Or was he simply pursuing his vision in the perfumed solitude of the gardens?--How was he to know?--Olivier thought of the Yvonne de Chésy with whom he had danced. He recalled all the Americans and the Italians he had ever known, in order to compose a Marchesa Bonnacorsi and an ideal Florence Marsh.--It was in vain! Always did his imagination return to the souvenir of Ely de Carlsberg, to that mistress of a so short time ago, whose image was still so present. Always did his thoughts return to the memory of those caresses, whose intoxicating tenderness he had tested. And he sighed, sadly and mournfully, in the pure night air:-- "Ah! What unhappiness if he loves her! My God! What unhappiness!"