I knew that I was my sober self, and yonder was the Vicomte de Clericy.

But I thought that the pier was moving and not the steamer, and bumped awkwardly against my neighbour, who looked at me curiously and apologised.
The old man by the stern-rail slowly turned and showed me his face--bland, benevolent, short-sighted.

I can swear that it was the Vicomte de Clericy, though the world has only my word for it; that Lucille's father--dead, buried and mourned--stood on the deck of the steamer _Principe Amadeo_ as she steamed out into the Gulf of Genoa on the evening of the 30th of May, 1871.
The precious moments slipped by, the great steamer glided past me.

I heard the engine-room gong.

The screw stirred the clear water, and I was left gazing stupidly at the receding form of my old patron as he stood with his placid hands clasped behind him.
It was some time before I left the spot; for my wounds had left me weak, and I have never had that quickness of brain which enables men to see the right course, and take it in a flash of thought.
The steamer had gone--was, indeed, now growing smaller on the horizon--and on board of her the Vicomte de Clericy.