"I'm open to bet that the lovely Valerie de Noirville will not come," he says. "Her foster-father has left her to mope alone at the Deutschmann. He is already sitting at the ecarte-table, where he stands alone against all comers. I'm afraid, my dear Victor, you'll not see your incomparable Valerie this evening." "I confess that, after all, I don't care very much," replies the person addressed, shrugging his shoulders. "This Southron is too dark-skinned, and has got a hasty temper too. For me, I only like the blondes." "That may be, but her millions will please you, I fancy. It is an open secret that mademoiselle is the favourite in the will, and she certainly is a most fascinating girl." "De Noirville hasn't the least desire to have his will executed just yet. Besides, why should I waste time over her? The place is taken already." "At Paris, yes--by Rene Delbet; everybody knows that--but at Scheveningen--?" "The same here, the same here, old fellow. The lady with the black eyes never pines alone--not even at seaside resorts. What is amusing, is that our excellent friend, De Noirville, does not notice how desperately his daughter flirts. Yet he's seen a great deal of life, and if I had been married twice, I think I should know how to play the watch-dog." "Eh? Has she a cavalier here? Who--who?" "A poor devil of a lieutenant in the Chasseurs d'Afrique. He adores her, and believes he has no rival. Nobody knows him; he is a mere chance-met gallant." "Infernal impertinence, to aspire to the hand of _la belle_ Valerie!" remarks one. "Is it a serious affair?" inquires another. "Was Valerie ever serious?" asks the elder man, with a laugh. "No, my dear fellows, she's only serious with Rene Delbet; but then, he's one of the richest men on the Bourse." I turn away to hide myself, for they are speaking of me. I, Lucien Peyrafitte, am the "poor devil of a lieutenant," and it is true that I adore Valerie, the charming girl of whom those jays had spoken with so much recklessness. Although I had known her for several months,--first in Paris, and afterwards here, on the Dutch coast,--I had not breathed one word of love. Why should I not do so to-night? She was alone at the hotel; there could be no more fitting opportunity. Retracing my steps along the Plage to the Hotel Deutschmann, I found her sitting upon the verandah alone, plunged in a deep reverie. In one of those huge wicker chairs which one sees nowhere else but at Scheveningen, I took a seat beside her, and, grasping her white hand, raised it to my lips. How long I sat there I cannot tell. It must have been several hours. Before we rose to enter the hotel, she had admitted that she loved me, and as a pledge of her affection, had given me a turquoise ring from her finger, while I had kissed her passionately, she returning my caresses and appearing supremely happy.