My sister has rejoined us at Vichy with her children. We are to leave together for the South. The idea no longer holds any attraction for me, everything draws me in the opposite direction. But I cannot give my reasons. I pretend to be waiting for the delivery of my order from the American firm, not to want to move before it has arrived. Very well! The excuse serves for a few days. But now the limb is delivered. Ten times preferable to the other, light and strong at the same time. This knee that bends is a marvel! Though it matters little enough to me now, it is true. How am I to withstand the family urgency now? In vain I argue that I am still weak. They all persist in extolling the advantage to be derived from a change of air. And then the tickets have been taken and our rooms engaged at Cannes in one of the only hotels not transformed into hospitals. I gain a week more. Here is Christmas, and the New Year's Day, so many All Souls' Days! Oh well, I shall have to give in. * * * * * A palace on the Antibes road; a park with luxuriant palms; a far-reaching view over the turquoise-coloured sea. Very few people--a diminished staff; war prices; besides, my father is making us a present of this holiday. My sister-in-law at once makes inquiries about less pretentious quarters, where we may end the winter. Getting wind of this project, I hasten to remonstrate. She is surprised; what's the matter? Do I no longer like this part? Didn't I choose it myself? I admit that I have changed my mind--a convalescent's weak nerves--that I dream of less well-known neighbourhoods, Corsica or the Morocco coast. It is quite true: I burn to escape from all that oppresses me on this coast. I avoid letting my eyes rest upon the headland of La Croisette. I can picture, too vividly, the bay behind it with its silver slopes, the Cape d'Antibes stretching out into the sea, with the white lighthouse at La Groupe, and, facing towards us amid the tangled mass of verdure, that dwelling so often described to me. These associations overwhelm me. Be still, my heart, be still! This is the sun which warms her, these are the waves whose murmur lulls her to sleep, the air which quickens her. I cannot breath here! My people, who enjoy being at Cannes, give way to my express wish: we are to leave again. * * * * * To-morrow will be our last day here. I am seated on the promenade. Where are the luxurious cars with their insolent footmen? Where are the dandies in white flannel, the fair pedestrians in toilettes fit for a queen? The patrons of the Riviera, this year, are those poor soldiers in faded uniforms. I find myself near the place where the sea-gulls used, formerly, to whirl, catching in their flight the scraps which little girls threw to them. They have deserted the shore. They are playing together in the distance, skimming the gleaming surface of the waves.