In due course Bartolomeo landed at Monaco where he was given a hearty welcome and was received by the prince with demonstrations of affection. He was attended by an exceptionally large suite and this the indulgent uncle ascribed to the natural swagger of youth. On reaching the palace Lucien begged young Doria to accompany him to Mass. He declined; so the prince went alone. During Lucien’s absence at the church it was noticed that Bartolomeo was engaged for long in a whispered conference with those who had accompanied him. [Illustration: MONACO: THE CLIFF GARDEN.] As soon as the heat of the day was over (it may be about six o’clock) the party met at supper. Bartolomeo, who sat next to his uncle, was very silent during the meal and—as it was remembered afterwards—was much preoccupied and unnaturally pale. Lucien tried to rally him; made jokes; dug him in the ribs; chaffed him and suggested that he was in love or had lost heavily at cards. Bartolomeo could only reply with a faint mechanical smile and a hollow effort to be jovial. A moment came when a dignified chamberlain stood up and, with his goblet raised, proposed “Health and long life to the Prince.” As Bartolomeo responded to this toast it was observed that he became as livid as a dead man and that the cup chattered against his teeth. It was with a throttled gasp that he muttered the words “Long life to the Prince.” Lucien acknowledged this kindly expression with a grateful smile and pressed his own warm hand on that of his nephew. Now hanging about his father’s chair was Lucien’s little boy. Bartolomeo had often played with the child and was curiously attached to him. Lucien, knowing the affection with which he regarded the lad, took him up and placed him in Doria’s arms. The boy was delighted and began to prattle of the doings of his little world and spoke, with breathless rapture, of to-morrow when his father was going to take him, as a great treat, to the shady beach at Cap d’Ail where they would build a hut, light a fire and cook their own meal. This talk was more than Bartolomeo could endure; for he knew that to-morrow the boy would be fatherless and sobbing his heart out in a darkened room. Bartolomeo, as he held the chattering little fellow in his arms, shook to such an extent that even the child’s talk was stilled and he began—moved by some subtle instinct—to be frightened. His father lifted him from Doria’s lap and told him to run away. Lucien could not understand his nephew this evening and ascribed his tremor to a touch of ague.