He laughed at her maliciously, mockingly, as his royal forefather might have laughed long ago, and passed on with the throng.
Hours later, when the _fete_ was over and the shore quite silent under the stars, he came alone along the quay, moving with his own peculiar arrogance of bearing, a cigarette between his lips, a deep gleam in his eyes.

It had been an amusing night after all.
Crossing the gangway to his yacht--_The Night Moth_--that rocked softly on the glimmering ripples, he paused for a moment and turned his face as if in farewell towards the little town that lay sleeping among its cypress-trees.

So standing, he heard again the tinkle of a lute from some hidden garden of delight.

It was as if the magic were still calling to him, luring him, reaching out white arms to hold him.

He made a brief bow towards the sound.
"_Adieu_, most exquisite and most wicked!" he said.