The train began to slow. Then it glided to a halt at Nice Station. Porters swarmed on board. Two of them grabbed my bags. I commanded Queenie to follow them and not let them out of her sight. I descended to find the bags already on a trolley and off we went at a great rate to find a taxi.

“The Villa Gloriosa,” I said to the taxicab driver.

“Comment?” he asked, meaning “What was that?”

I repeated the name. “You know your way around Nice, do you?”

“Oui, Madame. But I am not sure of the location of Villa Gloriosa. On what street is it to be found?”

I fished for the address and gave it to him. He pursed his lips as if he was not impressed.

“Is it far from here?” I asked.

“Not far.”

We set off—through small backstreets with balconies and peeling shutters and then out to that magnificent thoroughfare, the Promenade des Anglais. It was just as fine as it had looked in the poster—lined with palm trees, with elegant couples strolling and the sea beyond—sparkling in unbelievable shades of turquoise and azure. In spite of everything my spirits rose. Soon I’d be sitting on a terrace above that glittering sea, or strolling like those people on the Promenade, and I’d meet fascinating, witty new men, and I wouldn’t have to be with Fig every minute of every day. . . .

After a little way we turned off the boulevard and went inland again, and the atmosphere quickly deteriorated. We turned up a small street with a repair shop on the corner. Get your punctures repaired here, was the slogan painted on a white wall. The road began to climb a little, with nondescript buildings on either side, then it turned into a lane.

“Are you sure this is right?” I asked.

“Oui, Madame. This is undoubtedly the address you have given me.”

“Then it’s nowhere near the sea?”

“Apparently no, Madame.”

The lane narrowed until it was just wide enough for the taxi, with a high rough stone wall on either side. Then it stopped at high wrought-iron gates. The driver got out and opened the gates with difficulty. I found myself looking at a wild garden of dark, overgrown shrubs and beyond that a tall, plain house, its green shutters closed so that it gave a hostile, unfriendly impression.

“This is Villa Gloriosa?” I repeated to the taxi driver.

“Oui, Madame. See, it says so, on the plaque on the wall.”

Whoever had named it had strange delusions of grandeur, or was nearsighted. I got out and walked down a narrow path between overgrown Italian cypresses, which reached out to scratch me in unfriendly fashion as I passed, then knocked at the front door. The paint was peeling and the big oak door did not have an air of being opened frequently. I heard footsteps and then the door creaked open.