A brilliant spring was reigning in Monte Carlo. Not the pale, cold, Russian spring, when in May the first shy snowdrops barely manage to force their white heads through the ground; nor yet the Roman spring, that Gzhatski called “modest,” but the real, passionate, southern precursor of summer. April was not yet over, but the weather was hot as at midsummer. The blue sea sparkled dazzlingly under the unbearably strong rays of the sun, flowers hung like thick carpets over walls and terraces, gorgeous roses climbed over the trellises and fences of the gardens. And no one was there to admire all this splendour—for the season was over, the hotels and shops were closed, the shutters of the villas were up, and Monte Carlo resembled the kingdom of the “Sleeping[282] Beauty.” All the life that was still there was concentrated in the neighbourhood of the gaming rooms, and it was here that Irene and Gzhatski spent their days, walking in the lovely Casino gardens, or sitting on the fairy-like terrace overlooking the sea.

They had intended to be married immediately on their arrival in Monte Carlo, but, as is always the case with Russians, it had turned out that the ceremony could only take place on the production of countless official papers that had to be sent for to Russia. In the meantime, they had settled in a large hotel close to the Casino—the only hotel open all the year round—and happy in each other’s society, they revelled in the glories of the golden springtime that fashionable Riviera visitors had so foolishly abandoned.

Monte Carlo produced a very curious impression on Irene. In Rome she had seen, side by side with palaces, splendid carriages, and dazzling luxury, the most heart-rending poverty and beggary—a contrast to be met with in all large cities. Here, on the contrary, there was nothing of the kind. It seemed[283] as if every inhabitant of this sunlit fairyland lived and existed merely for his own pleasure. The very waiters at the Café de Paris hummed and danced to the sound of the Hungarian orchestra as they served visitors with refreshments. The Arab pedlars, selling Eastern shawls, wandered through the gardens in their white burnous and their smart red boots, apparently more intent upon boasting of the beauty of their wares than upon selling them. The only busy people in the whole place seemed to be the croupiers, and when, at given hours, groups of them came out of the Casino to be replaced by new relays, they reminded one of workmen leaving a factory after an exhausting day’s work.

The remaining inhabitants did nothing from morning till night but walk about in elegant summer clothes, feed pigeons, drink tea to the accompaniment of music, play with their absurd little dogs, or gamble in the Casino.

Irene was much interested in this, to her, novel type of public, and was particularly astonished at the sight of so many middle-aged,[284] even old, women, with dyed hair, made-up faces, girlish dresses and hats, tripping gracefully along, and smiling coquettishly at their funny little old-men admirers. The latter, even if somewhat shaky on their legs, also wore light, fashionable clothes, and flowers in their buttonholes. At first they made Irene laugh, but soon, with the inconsistency of nearly all weak characters, she began to wonder whether it was not much wiser to cling to one’s youth than to be old at thirty, as was her own case. The conviction that this was indeed so came upon her suddenly, and she immediately rushed off to Nice, and ordered a whole mountain of elegant dresses, hats, false curls, etc. Having previously considered it a sin to spend an extra penny on clothes, Irene now went from shop to shop, never even attempting to bargain, and throwing money about with almost feverish prodigality in her desire to possess herself without delay of all that was most elegant and luxurious in the way of frocks and frills.

Gzhatski observed her in amazed silence,[285] and smilingly watched the transformation of yesterday’s nun, with her flat hair and her eternal black dress, into a coloured fashion-plate. Being, in his heart, far more pleased than otherwise that his future wife should be well dressed and elegant, he did not protest. What disquieted him much more, indeed, was a passion that Irene suddenly developed for gambling. Gzhatski, having himself once advised her to cultivate some passion, if only artificially, just that it might attach her more firmly to earth, very ruefully contemplated the development of this passion now that it had shown itself without any effort on Irene’s part! Sergei Grigorievitch, indeed, was one of those men who, in the woman they have chosen, admit only one possible passion: that of love for themselves!

It was anything but easy to dissuade Irene from gambling. She revelled in the sensations of those feverish minutes passed at the tables, falling into the depths of despair at the loss of fifty francs, and soaring into an absolute frenzy of delight at the gain of forty! On leaving the gambling rooms,[286] Irene took deep breaths of the fresh ............