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It
was
unbelievable
that
there
could
ever
have
been
a
"
season
,
"
and
Rosemary
,
half
in
the
grip
of
fashion
,
became
a
little
self
-
conscious
,
as
though
she
were
displaying
an
unhealthy
taste
for
the
moribund
;
as
though
people
were
wondering
why
she
was
here
in
the
lull
between
the
gaiety
of
last
winter
and
next
winter
,
while
up
north
the
true
world
thundered
by
.
As
she
came
out
of
a
drug
store
with
a
bottle
of
cocoanut
oil
,
a
woman
,
whom
she
recognized
as
Mrs
.
Diver
,
crossed
her
path
with
arms
full
of
sofa
cushions
,
and
went
to
a
car
parked
down
the
street
.
A
long
,
low
black
dog
barked
at
her
,
a
dozing
chauffeur
woke
with
a
start
.
She
sat
in
the
car
,
her
lovely
face
set
,
controlled
,
her
eyes
brave
and
watchful
,
looking
straight
ahead
toward
nothing
.
Her
dress
was
bright
red
and
her
brown
legs
were
bare
.
She
had
thick
,
dark
,
gold
hair
like
a
chow
’
s
.
With
half
an
hour
to
wait
for
her
train
Rosemary
sat
down
in
the
Café
des
Alliés
on
the
Croisette
,
where
the
trees
made
a
green
twilight
over
the
tables
and
an
orchestra
wooed
an
imaginary
public
of
cosmopolites
with
the
Nice
Carnival
Song
and
last
year
’
s
American
tune
.
She
had
bought
Le
Temps
and
The
Saturday
Evening
Post
for
her
mother
,
and
as
she
drank
her
citronade
she
opened
the
latter
at
the
memoirs
of
a
Russian
princess
,
finding
the
dim
conventions
of
the
nineties
realer
and
nearer
than
the
headlines
of
the
French
paper
.
It
was
the
same
feeling
that
had
oppressed
her
at
the
hotel
—
accustomed
to
seeing
the
starkest
grotesqueries
of
a
continent
heavily
underlined
as
comedy
or
tragedy
,
untrained
to
the
task
of
separating
out
the
essential
for
herself
,
she
now
began
to
feel
that
French
life
was
empty
and
stale
.
This
feeling
was
surcharged
by
listening
to
the
sad
tunes
of
the
orchestra
,
reminiscent
of
the
melancholy
music
played
for
acrobats
in
vaudeville
.
She
was
glad
to
go
back
to
Gausse
’
s
Hotel
.
Her
shoulders
were
too
burned
to
swim
with
the
next
day
,
so
she
and
her
mother
hired
a
car
—
after
much
haggling
,
for
Rosemary
had
formed
her
valuations
of
money
in
France
—
and
drove
along
the
Riviera
,
the
delta
of
many
rivers
.
The
chauffeur
,
a
Russian
Czar
of
the
period
of
Ivan
the
Terrible
,
was
a
self
-
appointed
guide
,
and
the
resplendent
names
—
Cannes
,
Nice
,
Monte
Carlo
—
began
to
glow
through
their
torpid
camouflage
,
whispering
of
old
kings
come
here
to
dine
or
die
,
of
rajahs
tossing
Buddha
’
s
eyes
to
English
ballerinas
,
of
Russian
princes
turning
the
weeks
into
Baltic
twilights
in
the
lost
caviare
days
.
Most
of
all
,
there
was
the
scent
of
the
Russians
along
the
coast
—
their
closed
book
shops
and
grocery
stores
.
Ten
years
ago
,
when
the
season
ended
in
April
,
the
doors
of
the
Orthodox
Church
were
locked
,
and
the
sweet
champagnes
they
favored
were
put
away
until
their
return
.
"
We
’
ll
be
back
next
season
,
"
they
said
,
but
this
was
premature
,
for
they
were
never
coming
back
any
more
.
It
was
pleasant
to
drive
back
to
the
hotel
in
the
late
afternoon
,
above
a
sea
as
mysteriously
colored
as
the
agates
and
cornelians
of
childhood
,
green
as
green
milk
,
blue
as
laundry
water
,
wine
dark
.
It
was
pleasant
to
pass
people
eating
outside
their
doors
,
and
to
hear
the
fierce
mechanical
pianos
behind
the
vines
of
country
estaminets
.
When
they
turned
off
the
Corniche
d
’
Or
and
down
to
Gausse
’
s
Hotel
through
the
darkening
banks
of
trees
,
set
one
behind
another
in
many
greens
,
the
moon
already
hovered
over
the
ruins
of
the
aqueducts
.
.
.
.
Somewhere
in
the
hills
behind
the
hotel
there
was
a
dance
,
and
Rosemary
listened
to
the
music
through
the
ghostly
moonshine
of
her
mosquito
net
,
realizing
that
there
was
gaiety
too
somewhere
about
,
and
she
thought
of
the
nice
people
on
the
beach
.
She
thought
she
might
meet
them
in
the
morning
,
but
they
obviously
formed
a
self
-
sufficient
little
group
,
and
once
their
umbrellas
,
bamboo
rugs
,
dogs
,
and
children
were
set
out
in
place
the
part
of
the
plage
was
literally
fenced
in
.
She
resolved
in
any
case
not
to
spend
her
last
two
mornings
with
the
other
ones
.
The
matter
was
solved
for
her
.
The
McKiscos
were
not
yet
there
and
she
had
scarcely
spread
her
peignoir
when
two
men
—
the
man
with
the
jockey
cap
and
the
tall
blonde
man
,
given
to
sawing
waiters
in
two
—
left
the
group
and
came
down
toward
her
.
"
Good
morning
,
"
said
Dick
Diver
.
He
broke
down
.
"
Look
—
sunburn
or
no
sunburn
,
why
did
you
stay
away
yesterday
?
We
worried
about
you
.
"
She
sat
up
and
her
happy
little
laugh
welcomed
their
intrusion
.
