Bathing hours are very gay on the beach. A crowd of people from all parts of the world are to be met there. Amongst the lady-bathers an American actress, wearing a white tight-fitting bathing costume, is the main attraction for the moment. I ordered myself a similar costume, which led to a very unpleasant incident. One morning after my bath, I was returning to my cabin with my soaked bathing-costume, clinging to my body. The bathing establishment was especially crowded that day, and the woman on service, who happened to be on my way, handed me the key of my cabin and led me through the throng, whilst two young ladies, seeing this favouritism, swelled with resentment at having to wait their turn longer than I. “Well,” said one of them to her companion in Russian, throwing a murderous glance at me, “It is known that such creatures as this eccentric girl are always served the first; courtesans certainly know how to take care of themselves!” I had great trouble in controlling myself not to give her a good shaking. It appeared that these unpleasant compatriots of mine, who had so badly guessed my social position, were the noisy musical tenants of the Villa Gaston, who exasperated me daily with their scales and exercises. I shall have my revenge the first time I meet them. This occurred on the following day. The young ladies recognised me when I was going out to take my bath, and desirous to repair their silly mistake, they saluted me obsequiously, colouring to their hair, but I pretended not to see them and didn’t recognise their bow. One afternoon we went by train to Bayonne. There is nothing of much note in that town. The streets are narrow and encumbered with heavy carts and chariots. There was a crowd gathered before a small travelling-circus, where a self-named Hercules, in very dirty tights, lifted up weights of a hundred kilos, to the loud applause of his enthusiastic audience.