The next day I saw her in her own home, and found that it was a sort of memorial temple to the departed; on all the walls there was nothing but pictures painted by Marie Bashkirtseff, or representing Marie herself at all periods of her life and in the most varying phases, always full of beauty and charm. Neither could the sorrowful mother speak of anything else than of her famous daughter. A few days later I gave a lecture in Cannes. Luncheon on the _Arche de Noé_; Italian singers on board; magnificent weather; guests Count Rochechouart, the mayor, the president of the Nautical Club, Türr, and another gentleman—I do not remember his name—with a brutal face. The table talk turns on Dreyfus. “I do not admit,” says Count Rochechouart, “that seven officers condemned a comrade without being certain of their position.” The Mayor: “Other people, not knowing the circumstances, have no right to express an opinion.” The Nautical President: “A dozen bullets ought to have been sent through his body.” Rochechouart: “I belong to only one league—it is impossible to be of another—Déroulède’s.” The Brutal Man: “Obviously; I should like to see you being anything else.” So these are my fellow-banqueters before a lecture on peace! The lecture fell very flat. The hall was pretty empty. No enthusiasm. I have not often made such a miserable speech. After the lecture, which ended about four o’clock in the afternoon, we took a walk through the wonderful city of gardens. In Nice we were rejoiced by a call which brought back sweet recollections of the beautiful days in the Caucasus. I read in the local newspaper that Prince Lucien Murat and his wife, born Princesse de Rohan, had come to make a visit to the Empress Eugénie in neighboring Cimièz. I immediately wrote a note to my former little German pupil to tell him that we were near at hand. The next day the young couple came to see us. One cloud only darkened the delight of the reunion, namely, the tragic death of Prince Achille Murat, Lucien’s father. The incident was not mentioned. On our return to Harmannsdorf our days were filled with preparations for the journey to The Hague; I wrote numerous articles and sent letters to all points of the compass. I had buried myself in Bloch’s great work and had written him about it. In reply I received the following letter: Warsaw, April 8, 1899 My dear Baroness: Heartiest thanks for your kind lines. The service ascribed to me is, however, only the result of the movement against war which has been going on, and in which you personally, gracious Baroness, have taken such an important part; and I must bear witness that your personal talent, in my opinion, has accomplished more than all technical arguments can possibly accomplish.