"But here people are putting forward the wonders of electricity. I have heard that the whole road from Nice to Marseilles will be lighted by electricity." "An engineer, Ducloz, drew up such a plan," said Svirski; "but he died two months ago. He was such a fanatical electrician that very likely he desired in his will to have his grave lighted by electricity." "Then," said Vyadrovski, "he should have on his tomb the inscription, O Lord, grant him eternal rest, and may electric light shine on him for the ages of ages. Amen!" But Kladzki, the old councillor, attacked Vyadrovski, and said that he was trifling with grave subjects which were beyond witticism; then he attacked the whole Riviera. "All," said he, "from people to things, is simply a show and a jest. Everywhere they pretend to be 'marquises, counts, and viscounts;' but they are really on the watch to snatch away handkerchiefs. As to comfort, it is the same. In my office at Veprkoviski, five rooms could be put, each as large as the little den which they have given me in the hotel. The doctors have sent me to Nice for fresh air; but, as God lives, that _Promenade des Anglais_ has the vile odor of a lodging-house in Cracow; my nephew Sigismund can testify to this." But Sigismund's eyes were crawling out of his head as he looked at Pani Elzen's arms; and he did not hear what his uncle was saying. "Remove to Bordighieri," said Svirski. "Italian dirt is artistic at least; while French dirt is vile." "Still you are living in Nice?" "I am, because I could not find a studio beyond Ventimiglia. Were I to move, I should prefer Antibes, on the other side." When he had said this, he looked at Pani Elzen. At the corners of her mouth a faint smile appeared, and she dropped her eyes. Next moment, however, wishing, as it seemed, to turn conversation toward art, she spoke of Rumpelmayer's exhibition, and of the new pictures which she had seen two days before, and which the French journalist, Krauss, called impressionist-decadent. At this Vyadrovski raised his fork, and inquired, in the tones of a Pyrrho,-- "What are the decadents in general?" "From a certain point of view, they are people who ask of art itself the various sauces with which it is served," answered Svirski. Prince Valerian, however, felt wounded by what old Kladzki had said of "marquises, counts, and viscounts."