is a Greek church of exceeding beauty, the altar-screen of which was sent from Moscow as a present from the czar; and an Episcopal church, surrounded by a beautiful cemetery, where sleeps the philosophic Bussy d’Anglas, with many others whose names are well known.  The real Nicois almost all dwell in Old Nice, leaving the new city to the foreign colony.  Indeed, the natives are rarely if ever seen, except in the street.  They keep to their old quiet way of living, and, beyond letting their houses and selling their goods, appear to be utterly unconscious even of the existence of the strangers on the other side of Paillon.  Many of the Nice families are titled and wealthy, but with the exception of that of the count de Cessoles, it is very rare to meet the Nicois in society.  Mademoiselle Mathilde de Cessoles is the reigning belle, and deserves the honor.  She is a superb-looking woman, with a head and countenance worthy of a regal diadem.  Her features resemble those of the House of Bourbon, her complexion is admirable, and she has a certain good-natured, indolent, sultana way of moving which is perfectly charming.  Cupid alone knows how many have sighed for her hand since her long reign as a queen of society began, but none have as yet been favored with a kinder glance than that of friendship.  Scottish dukes, Roman princes and American officers have wooed, but never won:  la belle Mathilde still walks the orange groves of her villa, “in virgin meditation, fancy free.”

“But it waxes late—­’tis near three o’clock:”  let us hasten past the casinos, cafes, reading-rooms, Turkish baths and American drinking-bars which flourish on the quays, and make our way to the Promenade des Anglais, by this time alive with fashionables.  The “Promenade,” as I have said, is nearly four miles long, and faces the sea.  It is very broad, and has on one side a row of villas and hotels—­on the other a walk shaded by oleanders and palm trees, through the openings of which are obtained magnificent views of the Mediterranean.  Some of these villas are remarkably beautiful, especially that of the Princes Stirby, the former sovereigns of Wallachia, which is surrounded with exquisite gardens abounding with noble camellia trees, some of which produce as many as fifteen hundred flowers.  The Villa de Dempierre is very pretty, and is the property of the countess of that name, who is a most noteworthy person.  Madame de Dempierre belongs to one of the most ancient and wealthy families of France.  She was once a great beauty, and is still a brilliant wit and charming artist.  Some years ago she visited the empress of Russia, then residing at Nice, where she died.  Her Imperial Majesty, who was noted for her habit of making personal remarks, said bluntly, “Madame la comtesse, how beautiful you must have been!” “Majesty,” answered the spirituelle Madame de Dempierre, “you were complaining of the nearness of your sight:  since you can distinguish my beauty through the vista of so many years, I think