I remember that Patti was in the front row. When I appeared before this choice assembly, a single figure persisted in detaching itself from the rest of the crowd. It was the figure of my unknown young man. Who could he be to be noted thus, in the role of an invited guest, among these princes and princesses? He rested his elbow on the back of his chair. His hand was under his chin. His legs were crossed with easy negligence. He looked at me continuously. Everybody applauded over and over again. He alone did not lift a finger. Who was this man? Why did his countenance haunt me? Why did he watch me so insistently? Why did he not join in the applause? The next day, on the verandah, I was comfortably seated in a rocking-chair, all the while wondering who my handsome dark man could be. Coming back to earth I saw him there by my side, ensconced in one of those odd willow seats that enclose you as in a sentry box. His eyes again met mine. We did not speak, but both of us experienced a deep desire to exchange greetings. Just at that moment the hotel manager came up and began to talk to us. Then, observing that we were not acquainted, he introduced us. I learned then that he was son of an industrial leader of international standing--one of the best known in Paris as well as St. Petersburg and Vienna. Immediately I wanted to know everything about him. He on his side wished me to tell him all sorts of things of which I had never even dreamed. We were at once on terms of delightful intimacy. A short time after I was obliged to leave Nice. Just as my train was about to go, my good friend jumped into my carriage and accompanied me as far as Marseilles. There he bade me adieu and returned to Nice. Letter writing followed, in the course of which he told me how highly he regarded my friendship--more highly in fact than anything else in the world. For my part I thought of him more often than I should care to confess, but I had my wits about me sufficiently to announce to him, at the cost of a great effort of will, that he was too young for our feelings of regard for each other to continue without danger to both, and that he ought to forget me. Just at this time there was presented to me a viscount, who laid claim to my heart and hand. Need I confess that, with my eyes still filled with pictures of the other man, I could not endure his assiduous importunity. No one is deafer, says a French proverb, than who he is unwilling to hear. And the viscount would not listen to my discouraging remarks. He seemed to have imposed upon himself, in spite of my rebuffs, which were often severe and always discourteous, the task of bringing me to terms. Undoubtedly, in spite of my reserve and coldness, he might eventually have succeeded if one fine evening he had not dropped out altogether under threat of legal proceedings. He had a well-established reputation as a swindler.