"You must admit that my wedding _cortège_ is anything but commonplace," said Corancez to Hautefeuille, glancing at the three women behind whom he and his friend were standing. They had not met since the morning they had visited the _Jenny_ at Cannes. The acute Southerner, the moment of his arrival, had felt that there was a vague embarrassment in Pierre's greeting and in his expression. Upon the boat, the young lover's happiness had not been in the least troubled by the presence of Miss Marsh and of the Marchesa, although he knew they could not be ignorant of his sentiments. But he also knew that they would respect his feelings. With Corancez it was different. A mere glance of Corancez's disturbed him. "All is over," the Provençal had evidently thought. And, with his easy-going instincts of loose morality, Corancez was all the happier for his friend's happiness; he rejoiced in his friend's joy. He therefore bent all his energies upon the task of dispelling Hautefeuille's slight uneasiness, which he had discovered with his infallible tact. "Yes," he went on in a conciliatory tone, "this staircase is a little more chic than the staircase of some vile _mairie_.--And it is also delightful to have such a friend as you for my witness! I don't know what life may hold in store for us, and I am not going to make a lot of protestations, but, remember, you can ask me anything, after this proof of your friendship.--There must have been a host of things that were disagreeable to you in this expedition. Don't deny it. I know you so well!--And yet you have faced them all for the sake of your old friend, who is not, for all that, Olivier du Prat.--Isn't my _fiancée_ gloriously beautiful this morning?" he continued. "But, hush! here comes the old Prince in person, and Don Fortunato.--Watch closely, and listen; you'll find it worth your while!" Two old gentlemen were just issuing from the entrance of a high windowed hall, at the top of the staircase. They might have stepped out of one of the pictures in which Longhi has fixed so accurately, and so unpretentiously, the picturesque humor of ancient Italy. One was the Abbé Lagumina, very thin, very little; with his shrivelled legs, no thicker than skeleton's, buried in knee-breeches, and stockings that came above his knees. His bowed body was wrapped in a long ecclesiastical frock-coat. He rubbed his hands together unceasingly and timidly, bowing all the time. And yet his physiognomy was so acute, so stamped with intelligence, that the ugliness of his huge nose and his toothless gums was forgotten and only the charm of his expression remained.