I led the way to a table in the dining-car still vacant, and we talked as only people can talk who have no common language. By the most astonishing efforts Marcelle made it known that she would not stay at Monte Carlo very long now, and that if I wanted her to come to Florence when I got there she would. Also she kept talking about Fontainebleau and horseback riding in April. She imitated a smart rider holding the reins with one hand and clucking to the horse with her lips. She folded her hands expressively to show how heavenly it would be. Then she put her right hand over her eyes and waved her left hand to indicate that there were lovely vistas which we could contemplate. Finally she extracted all her bills from the Hôtel de Paris--and they were astonishing--to show me how expensive her life was at Monte Carlo; but I refused to be impressed. It did not make the least difference, however, in her attitude or her mood. She was just as cheerful as ever, and repeated “Avril--Fontainebleau,” as the train stopped and she stepped off. She reached up and gave me an affectionate farewell kiss. The last I saw of her she was standing, her arms akimbo, her head thrown smartly back, looking after the train. * * * * * It was due to a railroad wreck about twenty miles beyond Ventimiglia that I owe my acquaintance with one of the most interesting men I have met in years, a man who was very charming to me afterwards in Rome, but before that I should like to relate how I first really entered Italy. One afternoon, several days before, Barfleur and I paid a flying visit to Ventimiglia, some twenty miles over the border, a hill city and the agreed customs entry city between France and Italy. No train leaving France in this region, so I learned, stopped before it reached Ventimiglia, and none leaving Ventimiglia stopped before it entered France, and once there customs inspectors seized upon one and examined one’s baggage. If you have no baggage you are almost an object of suspicion in Italy.