Volume II
Chapter XIV: New Impressions
At three o’clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais—a charming place; for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills. Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans,—all drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticising the latest celebrity who has arrived—Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the company, and attract as much attention, especially the low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind.
Along this walk, on Christmas day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American— a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their button-holes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde girl or lady in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade, and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies’ feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.
“Oh Laurie! is it really you? I thought you’d never come!” cried Amy, dropping the reins, and holding out both hands, to the great scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter’s steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these “mad English.”
“I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you, and here I am.”
“How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?”
“Very well—last night—at the Chavrain. I called at your hotel, but you were all out.”
“Mon Dieu! I have so much to say, and don’t know where to begin. Get in, and we can talk at our ease; I was going for a drive, and longing for company. Flo’s saving up for to-night.”
“What happens, then—a ball?”
“A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and they give it in honor of the