gestures of his hand used to the sword--all showed the good man under the
brave, and, beneath the indomitable soldier, the true gentleman.

When they had shaken the hand of their host, the guests advanced to the
bow of the boat to salute a young girl, an exquisite, pale brunette, with
great, sad eyes, and a smile of infinite charm, who was half-extended in
a low armchair beneath masses of brilliant parti-colored flowers. A
stout man, of the Russian type, with heavy reddish moustaches streaked
with gray, and an apoplectic neck, stood by her side, buttoned up in his
frock-coat as in a military uniform.

Every now and then, leaning over and brushing with his moustaches her
delicate white ear, he would ask:

"Are you happy, Marsa?"

And Marsa would answer with a smile ending in a sigh, as she vaguely
contemplated the scene before her:

"Yes, uncle, very happy."

Not far from these two was a little woman, still very pretty, although of
a certain age--the age of embonpoint--a brunette, with very delicate
features, a little sensual mouth, and pretty rosy ears peeping forth from
skilfully arranged masses of black hair. With a plump, dimpled hand, she
held before her myopic eyes a pair of gold-mounted glasses; and she was
speaking to a man of rather stern aspect, with a Slav physiognomy, a
large head, crowned with a mass of crinkly hair as white as lamb's wool,
a long, white moustache, and shoulders as broad as an ox; a man already
old, but with the robust strength of an oak. He was dressed neither well