TOMB OF AGNES SOREL AT LOCHES
By permission of Mansell & Co.

WINGED WHEELS
IN FRANCE

BY

MICHAEL MYERS SHOEMAKER

Author of "Islands of Southern Seas," "The Great Siberian
Railway," "The Heart of the Orient," "Prisons
and Palaces of Mary, Queen
of Scots," Etc.

ILLUSTRATED

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1906

Copyrighted 1906 by
Michael Myers Shoemaker

TO
My Dear Friend
Mrs.W. P. HULBERT
of Cincinnati

[PREFACE]

This is not a love story. These wings are wings of motion, not of Cupid, yet there is much of romance and story in these pages,—for who can travel the plaisant pays de France and not dip deeply into both?

When I entered my red machine at Nice no route had been laid out,—to me there is small pleasure in travel when that is done,—so I told Jean to start and left the direction to him. Being French he naturally turned towards his own country, and knowing whither the superb highways and enchanting byways could lead one, I tacitly agreed, and we glided away by the level sea and on into the olive-crowned hill of Provence, to where Aix—the home of politeness—dreams the years away and the air seems still to echo to King René's music. Arles, Narbonne, fantastic Carcassonne, Lourdes, and Pau followed in rapid succession, and then we rested awhile at Biarritz with short journeys into Spain. Turning northward we rolled off into Central France, pausing daily in some ancient city or quaint village, climbing mountains to long forgotten castles, or rolling into valleys in search of deserted abbeys.

So we wandered through Auvergne, through courtly Touraine, sad Anjou, and stormy Brittany, until Normandy and Picardy smiled into our faces and Paris received us within her gates. Exploring the surroundings of that great city as one can do only in an auto, we finally glided off through the forest of Fontainebleau and Côte-d'Or to the mountains of the Vosges and thence over the Schlucht to the Rhine Valley to Freiburg, and up to Baden-Baden. There the spirits of the woods seized upon us and we promptly got lost in the Black Forest, and so rolled on into Switzerland to Geneva and finally to Aix-les-Bains, where the journey ended and I bade goodbye to my staunch car which had carried me without mishap or delay for near five thousand miles. To its winged wheels the highest mountains of France were no barrier.

If all this pleases you, read these pages—if not, drop the book.

M. S. M.

Union Club, N. Y.
June, 1906.

[CONTENTS]

[ILLUSTRATIONS]

[WINGED WHEELS IN FRANCE]

[CHAPTER I]

MONTE CARLO

"Monsieur smiles." To begin a journey with the greeting of a little child should be a happy omen. I am leaning over the terrace at Monte Carlo, watching the sparkle of the shifting sea. Away to the eastward glisten the villas on Cape Martan, to the west rises the ancient city of Monaco, behind me towers the Casino, the scene of more misery than almost any other spot on earth. Beyond and above it, rise the hills tier on tier, dotted with hotels and villas, while far in the blue dome of sky soar the eternal snows. A scene of beauty, yet one so familiar that I scarcely note it; neither are my thoughts of the nearby misery in the Casino when the little voice murmurs "Monsieur," and I see at my feet, seated on the marble of the terrace with masses of rhododendrons all around her, a mite of a girl, with sunny hair and blue eyes, who laughingly holds up for my acceptance a pink rose. It evidently is not considered proper for a young lady of her age to be talking to a strange man and she is accordingly hustled away, her wondering and rebellious eyes gazing back at me as she waves a farewell. Bless her little heart, it must be almost the only innocent thing in this sink of iniquity. With her disappearance, I have the place all to myself, the town gives up no sounds of life and soon even the sea has murmured itself to sleep, while yonder building, from the outside, is silent as a tomb now; yet as I enter I find every table in all the vast rooms so hemmed in by a struggling humanity, that I must wait my turn almost before throwing away good money if such is my desire. All the nations of the earth come here, and to manage and keep them in check, hundreds of detectives in plain clothes are always present. Yonder a man has dropped a pocket-book, which is at once pounced upon, and he is hustled through some door in the wall which has escaped your notice. Probably he is a thief, and will not return. If you end your life at the suicides' table—the last on the right on your way out—your body will be hustled off in a like manner, and the crowd without turning to look after you will close in again, leaving no sign that you have ever been. It is said that there is a carriage belonging to this establishment especially arranged so that a dead man may be driven away seated erect as though alive without shocking the senses of those who are here for pleasure. These people would rather you did not kill yourself and will give you a ticket home if you will go, but if you must pass to the great beyond, there will be no high mass said over your silent face and no further attention paid to your stiff fingers which have ceased to pour gold on the green tables. This world has no use for one whose pockets are empty—his day is done and he might as well be dead.

INTERIOR OF THE CASINO AT MONTE CARLO
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein

You will not be impressed with the misery of Monte Carlo unless you walk this terrace after dark and note the dejected figures huddled up on the benches beneath the rhododendrons. The sea does not seem to receive many of them, yet it is a better mode of exit than to throw one's self beneath the wheels of the trains rushing east and west just beneath here. Yesterday a man was literally swept off the wheels of a locomotive—there was nothing to pick up.

Inside these halls everything is done quietly and in order. There is never any confusion or noise, and you must check hat, overcoat, and stick before you enter. Save for the orchestra in the outer hall there is nothing to be heard but the subdued call of the croupier, the click of the rakes against the heaps of gold on the tables, and the whir of the wheels. The game does not interest me, as I always lose, but the circles of silent, intent faces form a study I never tire of until the perfume-laden air drives me out of doors. To-night there are some windows opened, the air is purer and as yet the crush is not too great; so let us watch for a time this world of Monte Carlo. As I wander through the over-decorated and gorgeous rooms there is space to move about, the people are not so absorbed in play and occasionally raise their eyes from the "green carpet," affording one a glimpse of the souls behind them—gay, desperate, indifferent—sodden with misery or drunk with the love of gambling; they are all here, the only impassive face is that of the man at the wheel who in both garb and countenance strongly resembles a funeral director, and his long rake generally buries your hopes as effectually as the spade of the grave-digger. What queer figures are hereabouts. Look at that old, old man intent only on the whirling of the wheel. His daughter stands behind him stowing his gains away. It is pure business with both of them. Beyond stands a woman who has not been young for years and who was never beautiful, though she may perhaps have possessed the fascination of the devil, with that red hair and those green eyes; but to-night at least, there is nothing about her which will make clear to you why a Russian Grand Duke should have gone crazy for her. She is gowned in soft sea green and trailing mosses, as though she had risen from the unsounded sea gleaming in the moonlight yonder, while upon neck, arms, and head is one of the most wonderful displays of diamonds I have ever seen. Both in size and brilliancy, they rival any of the crown jewels of Europe, and were, so it is said, all given her by that Grand Duke. She is under the constant watch and ward of two armed detectives. She has the face of a vampire, and that word probably describes her character. The Grand Duke is not here and has probably gone the way of all men of his kind long since.

Near her, and most intent upon the game, is a young American, who is called the easiest victim that has come to Monte Carlo in many a day. He has a face which most American mothers would be apt to trust, a smiling countenance, with dark eyes and hair, while his slender figure tells of his youth. It is said that he has dropped one hundred thousand dollars on these green tables within a short time. To-night he is certainly dead to all around him save that whirling ball. Poor fool!

Near me moves a smartly gowned, chic, French, auburn-haired woman, delicate in form and features, and wedded to that man near her, a huge edition of Louis XVI. Cupid's mind was preoccupied when he made that match. She is the author of several novels which have made some stir in the world, especially in English high life which she handles without gloves.

A woman behind me, evidently an American, is telling of her desertion by an American and of her destitute state. She will not fool the man who is with her now, as I discover by a glance. But what fools we mortals be, especially we men mortals! The other day in London I was dining at Prince's. The dinner was well advanced when I became conscious of a voice behind me, evidently an American and as evidently young. He was pouring out his life story to the woman, oblivious of all around him. To please his mother he had married a woman he could never love; in fact, he never had known what love was until he met his present companion.

"How old are you," he asked.

"How old do you think?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Not yet twenty-four," came the reply.

I managed by much manœuvering to catch a glimpse of her face; the usual thing, painted and dyed, certainly forty if a day. As I passed out, I asked the head waiter who she was. "Bless your soul, sir, one of the most notorious women of London; used to live at the Savoy; has ruined more men than she can count; age, well forty-five if a day; why she was old when I first saw her and that was long ago."

As he was talking, the couple passed me, the poor fool of a boy flushed with wine, the woman such a palpable fraud that it was of no interest to follow. In the glare of the street lamps she gave him a look and me a look, which fully told her story. While one may excuse such infatuation in a young man, one cannot do so in a man of middle life, for he surely knows that, while it is possible for him to attract the respect and even love of a good woman, a bad woman will have use for him only so long as his money holds out and he is a fool if he does not understand this. There are many such fools and homes are constantly being wrecked, lives destroyed by them. There are many such women in these rooms at Monte Carlo, and the ruin they strew broadcast is only a shade less in degree than that of the spinning wheels.

As I pass outside, the air is full of the balmy odor of the orange and lemon; the sky, deep blue, is spangled with myriads of stars and a new moon gleams over Monaco; while the waters of the sea lap a lullaby, and the world seems full of peace. The scene is beautiful past description and I linger a while on one of the many benches facing the Casino, linger until I discover that its other occupant is huddled up in the far corner with a face full of staring misery, and then as I pass onward I realize that almost every bench holds one or more such hopeless wretches.

But enough of Monte Carlo with its glitter and misery. Let us pass to Nice, stretching away on the shores of the sea with its pale yellow and green houses glowing in the sunshine and its promenade full of everything that can move.

[CHAPTER II]

OUR DEPARTURE FROM NICE—THE ROAD TO AIX—THE CITY OF KING RENÉ

I had greatly desired to make a long auto tour, but being alone save for Yama, my Jap servant, I had scarce the courage to start, so I decided to go by train to Paris, and was in fact booked by that of Saturday week. As I stand on the porch of the Hôtel des Anglais gazing with regret at the flashing machines as they glide by, an old acquaintance comes out and asks me to "take a spin in his," which I gladly do, with the result that before I return to the hotel I have engaged that same machine and driver by the month. So it is settled. I offer the owner some payment in advance, but he waves it aside, "Any friend of Mr. E. is all right." However, we shall see what we shall see. I secure, as is wise, a written agreement to the effect that I am to have the auto at the rate of six hundred dollars per month, everything included except the board, lodging, and pourboire of the driver, also that I am in no way to be held responsible for any sort of accident or breakage. This is necessary as otherwise one would certainly be charged with every scratch.

So it is settled that we start two days hence and I have some consultations with the chauffeur. Everything is arranged for an extended tour through Southern France or wherever I will, and then "Jean," the driver, says that the owner would like "half a month's pay in advance." I thought that smile of the other day meant something. He reminded me of Monsieur Blandois in Little Dorrit whose "nose came down over his mustache and whose mustache went up under his nose," but a pleasant man withal. Having disposed of my railway tickets and forwarded my heavy luggage to Paris, and all being ready, we start, stopping a moment to pay Monsieur half a month in advance. That is of course as it should be. Off at last. Away over the beautiful Promenade des Anglais we roll with all Nice glittering and gleaming a goodbye at us, while the sea joins in in a soothing monotone. Our route leads over the long Corniche road, "Autos de course" thunder by us at an appalling speed, would we plod on at a modest gait of forty-five miles per hour.

A moment's pause at Cannes to say goodbye to a friend, and we are en route once more. Cannes is beautiful, but agreeable only if one owns a villa and knows the people. Hotel life there is desolate. It is the Newport of this coast. Gorgeous yachts lie in its harbor, splendid villas gleam amidst the olive trees, and the people are mostly English. Here we leave the coast and sail,—that seems the best way to describe our motion,—up into the hills of Provence until the olives vanish and we are surrounded by the peaceful mountains, while the air is laden with the balsam from the pines. We do not sight the sea again, but the ride is glorious. The racing machines are now few and far between, so one does not hold on for dear life and is not choked in dust,—one's own dust never bothers.

The roads are simply superb, hard as a floor and magnificently made. They appear to have been sprinkled with petroleum.

Towards evening as we are gliding into the peaceful land of Provence, high on an adjacent peak stands a Madonna (which forces from Jean the confession that he has not been a good Catholic). The setting sun turns her crown into glittering gold and the sad green of the olive trees into silver. The peasants' horses are plodding peacefully homeward, with their tired masters sleeping soundly in the rumbling vans. It has always been a desire of mine to visit Aix, but it seemed a sacrilege, almost, to enter it in a train of cars. To-day, however, sailing onward, soundless and with no sense of motion save that of gliding, it is almost as though we are borne on wings until the first paving stone of the city jostles us down to earth once more. But even so we are spared the usual porters and omnibus and all the paraphernalia of an hotel in the twentieth century, and moving up to the portals of the quaint hôtel Nègre Coste, are welcomed by Madame in a black gown and a white cap.

Here my first day in an auto comes to an end, and rising, I shake myself, and, rubbing my eyes, step out, and instantly the auto, Jean, and Yama vanish, and I stand,—almost wondering whether they have ever been—gazing up at the statue of King René who died four hundred years ago, and who seems to smile and hold out his bunch of grapes as he welcomes me to Aix in his fair kingdom of Provence.

The voice of Madame recalls me from the royal presence, asking, "Is it Monsieur's wish to have a chamber for himself and one for each of his domestics?"

"Yes." (Jean might go to a cheap hotel, has even so suggested, but my life is in his hands and I want good service, such as can come only from good nature. Therefore Jean will stop in the house with me.)

This hôtel Nègre Coste has made no changes since before the great Revolution, and I doubt not but that members of the Committee of Public Safety or Revolutionary tribunals have entered this same door, nay, slept in that same bed where I shall presently forget all about them. It is my day now, theirs is done, and most of them have not even graves alone, but rest in the public fosses.

From my window I look down upon the Cours Mirabeau, though it bore no such name in his day. In this city King René lived and reigned in peace, the centre of all the music and romance of this section and apparently unaware of that werewolf Louis XI, awaiting just outside for his death in order to seize the kingdom. The "Cours" is long and narrow, with a promenade in its centre, the whole being sheltered by double rows of plane trees cut square over the tops, and forming beneath a long tunnel where the sunlight filters through the green gloom of the leaves, as thick here as in Vallambrosa. At the head of the Cours the statue of the king gazes downward upon the two old moss-grown fountains, where all form and shape has long since been lost in the passing years and plashing waters. To the music of one just outside my window in the quaint little hotel, I sink to sleep and dreams of King René and Margaret of Anjou intermingle with those of wild rushes over long highways.

The morning sunlight shines brightly, and Jean would like to move on, but Jean has not that sort of a man to deal with. The twentieth century and the automobile must wait while I spend some hours in exploring this quaint town, a decision of which Madame, mine hostess, approves, as she smiles from a seat near the door where she sits knitting and watching her hotel. Madame is old and knows many things, amongst them, that "Monsieur would visit the Cathedral, it is ancient and very curious, and is to be found far up by the first turn to the left."

Modern Aix holds some thirty thousand people, and to the great outer world is but little known. One hears much of Aix-la-Chapelle and of Aix-les-Bains, but little of Aix in Provence, yet to my thinking it is more interesting than either of the others, certainly than Aix-les-Bains, though the German city with its memories of Charlemagne holds its own for interest intense and abiding.

CLOISTERS OF THE CATHEDRAL AT AIX
From a photograph

The Cours Mirabeau divides the modern city from its ancient fellow, and as I leave the hotel, I plunge at once into the dark and narrow streets of the latter where in René's day the poets, troubadours, and gallants held high revels. Aix was the home of politeness, the theatre of the courts of love, which in the valley of the Rhone can never be platonic—and there were held fêtes and tournaments, and life was all a song. It is not always the well-known objects which attract one most in these old mediæval towns but the quaint bits and corners, fountains and monuments unnoted in any guide-book. Yonder stately façade was surely the dwelling of some one of importance in the old days. To-day it is occupied by many of a far different order. An arched portal gives entrance to a courtyard with an old fountain. A stately façade beautifully carved rises beyond; and through a distant archway one catches a glimpse of a deserted garden where the trees form a wild tangle around broken statues, and there is the murmur of water, but the soul of the house has long since passed away. Perhaps in the days of the terror those doors resounded to thunderous knocking while the silence of the night and the peace of the house vanished forever at the dread summons, "Open in the name of the nation," a sure bidding, in those times, to the guillotine; and I doubt not that, with the courage of their class, Monsieur le Marquis and Madame la Marquise went forth to their doom calmly and with great dignity.

One could stand and dream forever in this town of old Provence, but the boys are gathering in curiosity as to why I gaze at a spot that has never attracted a passing interest in their minds. "No one save Jacques the huckster lives there, why should he excite any attention?"

The faded gilding in the ceilings of the great salon visible through the dusty window tells no tale of bygone splendour to the boys, no picture of Watteau figures in high heels dancing around that broken god Pan in the garden pass before their mental visions. To-day one shaft of that old cart rests upon his flute and a blossoming plum tree casts its white shower over his head, but his music is silent for ever.

CLOISTERS OF THE CATHEDRAL AT AIX
From a photograph

In the square beyond stands the Hôtel de Ville which shelters in its courtyard an excellent statue of Mirabeau, and just outside rises one of the old towers of the city, now dedicated by a tablet to the souls of those who have lost their lives for their country. A young woman under its shadow tells me that I shall find the Cathedral just beyond, and in company with the archiepiscopal palace and the little university, there it stands in a square by itself. The Cathedral of St. Sauveur is very ancient. As I enter, the whole interior rests in silence save for the droning voice of some priest. Candles twinkle before the many altars, and the sunlight filters through the trees outside and the painted windows, casting wavering shadows down upon the empty aisles and many tombs. In the nave one may see the portraits of King René and his second wife Jeanne de Laval, and as you gaze upon them, the picture of his life unrolls itself across your mental vision. Born in the grim castle of Angers in 1409, René was married when but twelve years of age and his eldest child came on earth when the father was but eighteen. Eventually René, Duke of Bar and Lorraine, became Duke of Anjou, Count of Provence, and King of the two Sicilies. Though he held the last-named honour but eight years he never surrendered the title. He was a friend of Agnes Sorel and of Joan of Arc, women much more to his liking than his fierce daughter Margaret. René gave all his love to this land of Provence where his palace stood intact—here in Aix—until destroyed most wantonly in 1786. His progress thither was by state barges up and down the rivers—on the Loire to Roanne and thence over land to the Rhone at Lyons and so to Tarascon. Music and flowers, sunshine and happiness seem to have been his portion, yet there was one shadow—that of Louis XI. then the dauphin, whom he met for the first time in the Castle of Tarascon. At Tarascon he instituted the Order of the Crescent and held a fête which is remembered to this day. To his credit it is recorded that he gave protection to Jacques Cœur, fleeing from the ingratitude and treachery of Charles VII., and enabled him to escape into Italy. Having already said farewell to France and Anjou, René plainly saw the absorption of his beloved Provence by King Louis. His picture—some say painted by himself—here in the Cathedral does not impress one strongly. He was too old when it was done and while interesting and beautiful in detail one does not linger long in its contemplation. This cathedral was four hundred years old when René was born and portions of it date far before that, being of Roman origin. Especially is this the case in the baptistery whose superb columns came from the temple of Apollo. The cloisters are quaint and most interesting, and the temptation to linger is strong upon me, but time presses and so I pass outward and down the queer streets to where Jean solemnly seated in the Red Machine awaits my pleasure.

Yama has the luggage already packed in the auto when I reach the hotel and we are shortly off, jumping instantly back, or rather forward, from the fourteenth to the twentieth century. Madame smiles an adieu from her seat by the door and keeps on knitting, as those women of France have ever done through sunshine and sorrow, days of happiness and days of blood.

As we speed away, Jean catches sight of the Madonna high up on the mountain and heaves a great sigh, regret I suppose at the recollection of all those neglected confessions.

[CHAPTER III]

THE ROAD TO ARLES—THE CAMARGUE—RUINS OF ARLES—THE "ALISCAMPS"

Leaving Aix down in her bowl in the hills with the silvery olive and flowering almond and plum trees framing her quaint old face, we roll on over the finest stretches of highway I have ever imagined. This is the level land of the mouth of the Rhone and in the next two hours we have three bits of road of ten miles each, and all as straight as a string drawn taut. What speed we seem to make; how the wind sings, and how exhilarating! The machine, a —— of some twenty-four horse-power, makes now about forty-five miles an hour; yet we feel when one of ninety horse-power passes as though we were at a stand-still.

During the morning hours our route lies through many old towns; each of which has its memories. This one of Salon holds the castle of the astrologist Nostradamus and in her church of St. Laurent he lies buried.

From Salon our way leads directly west and we skim along for twenty miles through the flat land but see nothing of the Rhone until we reach and pass through Arles. Then we bring up suddenly upon its very brink with its yellow floods rolling southward at our feet.

On our right are the gateways of the famous old city of Arles, but my eyes are drawn off and away across the river and out over the fantastic land of the Camargue, a land more akin to Africa than to Europe,—that great "Field of Reeds" between the two branches of the Rhone, only a few feet above the level of the sea, where the ibis, Egyptian vulture, and the flamingo are to be found. The whole is so low and so covered with salt that it glistens and glitters under the morning's sunlight, while the air quivers and shifts above it, and is full of the mirage, taking on strange forms and fantastic shapes as the eye wanders over it.

THE PORTAL OF THE CATHEDRAL OF ST. TROPHIMUS, ARLES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein

The people out there are as wild as the cattle which roam its plains, and their manners and customs as oriental as those of the Arabs who invaded the land centuries ago, while its one town, Les Saintes-Maries, has all the characteristics of an African town of the desert, and there Mary Magdalene, Mary of Salome, and Mary the mother of James, landed to escape persecution.

We cannot go further into the Camargue now and so turn to where, on our right, the entrance to the ancient city of Arles is guarded by two great low round towers, beyond which stretches a vista of narrow shadowy streets full of attractions and inviting exploration. The main features of the old Roman town are too well known to justify description, but every street holds some relic of the past worth inspection, and on our way to the very comfortable inn, where we dine in plenty, my eyes are constantly on the alert and yet much is missed. There are two inns in this city of Arles situated at right angles to each other in the same corner of the public square and it would appear that whichever the traveller selects he will be subjected to the pitying glances of the proprietor of the rival establishment watching from the door of his own house; however, I find nothing to complain of either in the house I enter or in the dinner service.

The day is one of blinding sunshine as we draw up before the amphitheatre. Its great arches glitter against the blue sky and the white city all around us is as silent as a tomb. There are two pictures which must arise to the thoughts here: one, that of the place in the voluptuous splendour of its Roman days. The vast crowds thronging every space; the silver netting to protect them from the beasts in the arena; the fountains in these arches casting up scented waters; the sunlight filtering through awnings of gorgeous silks; the heat; the smell of perfumes and of fresh blood; the roar of the beasts and the murmur of the multitudes,—all these made Rome what she then was and kept the people from thinking. The other picture is so widely different that it is difficult to believe it can be of this same structure, choked from the summit to far underground with the hovels of the poor, every archway closed up, the whole centre a veritable rabbit warren—thousands of outcasts found their homes in this spot. To enter it was scarcely possible save to the initiated, to leave it also was well nigh impossible. A murderer from the town had but to disappear here and all trace of him vanished. If any ventured to pursue him they never returned to tell of what they had seen. Upon this mass of vileness the plague descended in 1640—It came many more times to Arles—none were allowed to come out and the dead and living crowded the place to its utmost hidden recesses. Finally they were summoned forth to quarters beyond the town and only the dying and the dead were left to occupy this amphitheatre of Arles. We have the scene of those horrors and of former gorgeousness to ourselves to-day and we wander in and out at pleasure.

EXTERIOR OF THE AMPHITHEATRE AT ARLES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein

All the world knows of the Greek theatre here of which there is much left, but of the quaint Cathedral of the middle ages less is spoken though it is of interest, especially the cloisters, where you may spend a pleasant half hour back in the myths of the past. You are told again that Martha and Mary came here from the Holy Land for there are their figures carved in stone, and also here that Mary conquered the dragon by a piece of the true Cross. The portal of the Cathedral is simple, yet so beautiful that I venture to reproduce it that you may judge for yourself. Enter, and you will find a very lofty, very plain, but very dignified nave of the twelfth century. As I leave the sanctuary, I am greeted by the priest in a dignified solemn salutation,—he does not raise his eyes, and I am evidently completely forgotten before he has turned away. A lot of boys, shut up in school in one of the chapels for some hours back, stop to stare at me for an instant and then go whooping away down the quiet streets of the old city.

Arles is truly a Roman town—aside from the Cathedral,—all Roman; her amphitheatre impresses you with its majesty, her theatre charms more in its ruins than it could have done two thousand years ago in its prime, and you will linger long in that beautiful avenue of the dead, "Aliscamps," (avenue of death) just outside the gates where stately lines of cypresses march away on either side, shading in a sad sort of fashion rows of ancient sarcophagi, ruined and empty. The place is vast in extent and in the days of its splendour, the dead were brought here even from Lyons. It is mentioned by Dante in his Inferno. Pagans and Christians sleep here side by side until the day breaks and the shadows flee away.

THE ALISCAMPS AT ARLES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein

The weather has all to do with one's impressions of a country. I always associate France with a golden sunlight, for so many times I have left London, stifling under its black fogs, and literally sailed into the sunshine on the coast of France. So especially does sunshine form a part and parcel of Southern France, somewhat too strong and blinding in summer, but in the spring with its blossoms of fruit trees and in the autumn with its splendour of color and the dreamy odor of over-ripened fruits, the sunlight of France is,—well, just the sunlight of France, and those who have seen it will remember it always. To-day in the high tide of spring all nature rejoices. These ruins gleam white and pure, the city, like an ancient dame of high degree, bears a gracious aspect, the river dances and sparkles, and the long highways stretch off and off until lost in the midst of olive groves and blossoming fruit trees.

[CHAPTER IV]

THE ROUTE TO TARASCON—CASTLE OF KING RENÉ—BEAUCAIRE—NÎMES—MONTPELLIER—AN ACCIDENT—NARBONNE, ANCIENT AND MODERN

Leaving Arles we speed northward to Tarascon and so drop downward a thousand years in history as Tarascon belongs to the Middle Ages.

To me these mediæval cities and fortresses are far more charming, far more interesting than the Roman remains with which this land abounds. The latter seem cold and the lives led in them so far different from our own, that with it and them we can have but little sympathy, but this does not hold with the France of the middle ages. There, all is warmth and color and distant music. So it is to-day at Tarascon; I can almost fancy that King René and his troop of minstrels yet hold high revels in yonder castle and I should not be greatly astonished to see its portals open and give egress to Margaret of Anjou on her departure for England. How, by the way, came such a woman, as history paints her, to be daughter of a king who cared only for music and grapes, and the joy of laughter?

This castle of Tarascon was King René's palace of pleasure to which he came from Aix and held high revel; here you may still see his chapel and there are many apartments of his time, amongst them his private rooms all of which I did not see, for the fat jailer would under no circumstances permit my entrance. My inclination for a fight in order to secure an entrance was strong, but then it occurred to me that the quarters to which I would be consigned might not be those of King René and my sojourn therein might be protracted.

It is shameful that such a place should be used for such a purpose and our intentions to effect a change are great as we roll off to inspect the town.

I must confess that in Tarascon it is not so much King René as Daudet's "Tartarin" who occupies my thoughts. On the whole, the place is very lonely or the people all asleep. Certainly it does not seem a spot to offer much adventure, but then, who can tell? As we repass the portals of René's fortress, the jailer sits sound asleep and his prisoners might escape without difficulty. The river is not very wide awake. I feel sleepy myself, and Jean and the auto are in like condition. Here, here, now! Wake up there, get your winged wheels and let's off and away!

So we spin past the frowning towers and crossing the Rhone by a fine bridge, pass through Beaucaire, where high above the river are the ruins of another castle once belonging to the Count of Toulouse. Wars and time have left nothing save its tower and the arches of a chapel, where Saint Louis prayed on his way to the Crusade. The Castle's last tenant was Duke François de Montmorency, the last of his line and a victim of Richelieu's.

Our ride to Nîmes is hot and dusty and under a glaring sun. Nîmes is another spot too well known to need mention, and, like most of the places well known and greatly talked about, it is not so interesting as one of which one has heard but little. Certainly Nîmes, a bustling, prosperous city cannot approach Aix or Arles in interest of story and romance, and she has aside from her Roman remains nothing to detain us.

I find that I am not alone in my opinion of these Roman remains. James in his Little Tour in France speaks of them as monotonous and brutal, and not at all exquisite. He referred especially to the amphitheatres at Nîmes and Arles. They are cold and cheerless even under a brilliant sunlight; perhaps the memory of their wild beasts and all the blood and slaughter have much to do with this. Certainly here at Nîmes, while one must admire the splendid arches and sweeping lines of the whole, one does not linger with any such pleasure as, for instance, in Heidelberg or among the ruined abbeys of England. The Maison Carrée is beautiful to look upon and you feel glad that there is such a gem, yet it is cold and you soon leave it with no regret. It stands on the busy street of a too large town, and trams rattle and rush by its door. You cannot picture men in togas and sandals on those steps to-day.

The rest of Nîmes, while probably a comfortable city in which to live, will not hold your interest for a moment and I roll off and away with no desire ever to return. How different our feelings at Avignon!

Leaving Nîmes we roll southward for some hours until Montpellier is reached at half past five. The roads have been fine but the ride not so pleasant as that of yesterday. Montpellier is simply a place to spend the night with nothing to see, a busy place of some sixty thousand people. The streets and sidewalks bubble and sparkle until a late hour with the life that is so dear to these people,—open cafés and tables all over the sidewalks, much wine but never a case of intoxication. No matter in what part of the world you find this nation, they will arrange some portion of their abiding place to resemble their beloved Paris. It is so here, it is so in Saigon, and would be so on a desert island.

This afternoon, during an enforced stoppage of fifteen minutes, I saw Jean smile, and looking round beheld a group for a picture. In the middle of the long dusty highway stood my little Jap servant gazing up into the face of an old French woman perched high on a pile of rubbish which loaded a small cart almost to the breaking point, the whole being drawn by the most diminutive donkey I have ever seen. Surely there was a strange juxtaposition; she who might have been a descendant of the Vixen in Dickens' Two Cities gazing down upon a representative of the far-off rising Empire. Yama is greatly amused by the carts drawn by small dogs, and in many ways he finds France different from the Land of the Morning.

GENERAL VIEW OF THE CHÂTEAU OF KING RENÉ AT TARASCON
From a photograph

This is our third day and we are leaving Montpellier, having passed from Aix to Arles, Tarascon, and Nîmes, and thence here, and have had but one mishap, not at all our fault. In a long, straight stretch of the Corniche, between Nice and Cannes, two men were walking away from us and we fortunately were not moving at high speed. Our horn was blown constantly and there were no other machines in sight. One of the men, knowing we should follow the law of the land and pass him on his left, kept his side of the road, but the other completely lost his head, and dodging from one side to the other like a chicken, forced us either to run over him or into the ditch. Of course we did the latter. Jean managed the auto so well that no injury was done, as the ditch was but a few inches deep, but then came the problem, how to get out. The soft mud rendered our own power useless, we simply churned holes. Finally a van came along, drawn by two stately Normandy horses, the driver, after a moment's inspection of our plight, calmly hitched on to our springs and drew us on to the high-road, after which the horses stood nodding their great heads at us as though to say, "After all you have to come to us when in trouble, as you are most of the time." A few francs called down a benediction upon us from the old driver and we skimmed away, the horses still holding converse concerning us as we vanished in a cloud of dust.

Jean takes as much interest in this auto as one does in a horse. He knows all its good points and one discovers its bad ones only by noting his watching of certain parts. The tire of the right hand rear wheel seems to bother him and late in the day that tire collapses. He claims that that wheel, being mostly off the crown of the road, or rather being forced off when we meet or pass anything is subject to a greater strain than the others, and we have some trouble until at Montpellier he buys some new ones, and to-day towards Carcassonne there has been no trouble—but I anticipate.

The ride from Montpellier to Narbonne, where we have luncheon, is pleasant but not of much interest. In one village the people are en fête for the return of Monseigneur, and we shortly meet his Reverence in a coupé, the only sign of affluence I have noted in all the land. When I ask Jean who is with his reverence, he suggests "his niece," and adds that it is marvellous how many "nieces" these priests have. Now that is the suggestion of Jean, who, as I have before stated, is not a good Catholic and does not go to Mass. I know, for I saw him, that the black-robed figure beside the one in purple was a priest.

Narbonne is only five miles from the sea, and one may scent the salt marshes even in her streets. In the days of her birth, five centuries before our era, she was surrounded by lakes and so connected with the sea, making her one of the most important ports of the great Roman Empire. She is described as beautiful in the year 95, possessed of theatres, temples, baths, a superb capitol, and all that in those days made the splendour of a Roman city. All this has vanished utterly in the passage of Visigoths, and Saracens,—who defied Charles Martel and Pépin until treason aided the latter. Its history onward is that of France, but its decay began one hundred years before day dawned on America, at which time the Jews were expelled and the port began to fill up through the bursting of a dike.

To-day we roll into a commonplace town with but two relics even of the middle ages, and nothing at all of the more ancient periods. A fragment of a cathedral and a bishop's palace alone attract the eye. Of the former there is little of interest, though it would have been a great shrine if completed. The palace has a stately façade, but nothing inside worthy of note.

We find a comfortable hotel here with a garrulous old lady seated near its door, who immediately asks me where Madame is, and on my telling her that I am not married, offers to bring forth several applicants for the empty post, adding that I am none too old, as she herself married again but lately at sixty-five, and I am but a boy. However, I decline the proffered assistance, and we roll away out of the very ancient city, leaving the old dame shaking her head at the "queer ideas of those Americans."

[CHAPTER V]

THE APPROACH TO CARCASSONNE—ITS PICTURESQUENESS, ITS RESTORATION AND HISTORY

The ride from Narbonne via Béziers proves most enjoyable. As we leave the town, the air becomes cooler, and from the summit of a hill the Pyrenees range into view, a long line of glittering snow marching in stately procession across the southern horizon.

The air is full of the buoyant freshness of the hills, and one's thoughts turn to pine forests and rushing waters. Over the superb highway where in ancient days stately processions passed to and fro from Spain, our machine glides on with a sweeping, flying motion, until I find myself leaning over and looking for the wings which should project from the centre of each wheel,—winged wheels, surely.

What intense satisfaction such a journey brings, how different from that of the most luxuriant train, where, no matter how comfortable our bodies may be made, our eyes are constantly irritated by being shut off from some desired view of mountain, town, or castle, by a deep cut or long line of freight cars. One has a proscenium box always when in an automobile, and is enabled to ring down or up the curtain at will. So to-day with not eyes enough to see the beauties of this fair land, we glide onward to the beating of the wings when suddenly on a hill before us sharply silhouetted rise the towers of Carcassonne. The old poem is at fault this time—I have "seen Carcassonne" even though I approach no nearer and surely the prospect is enchanting.

THE FORTIFICATIONS AT THE OLD TOWN OF CARCASSONNE
From a photograph

But is that Carcassonne, or any town built by man's hands? I have seen many a mirage in distant deserts like unto this before me. Through the fantastic dancings of the afternoon's waves of light, the old city looms up as though cut out of black cardboard. Sharply and clearly against the tawny background stands forth every tower and pinnacle, cathedral spire and parapet. Behind it, rise the yellow hills, the green mountains, and the eternal snows, while to the north, east, and west, stretch the undulating valleys of France, clothed now in a blanket of spring blossoms, and over all arches the deep, fathomless, southern sky.

Occupying the top of a hill in the middle fore-ground, yonder dream city of the dark ages needs but the flaunting banners of its ancient lords and the call of trumpets to make the picture perfect. But it is ghostly and silent as we roll by, taking no note of the passage of this strange machine, which, in the Middle Ages, would have produced great commotion amongst its defenders and peopled the walls and towers with thousands to see us pass. To-day no living thing gives evidence of life, not even a dog barks, and as we glide onward and leave it, I wonder again—"Was that Carcassonne, or indeed its mirage? Shall we find it ahead of us; are there two such places in this world of the twentieth century?"

Crossing a fine bridge, we pass through the streets of a comparatively modern town, and draw up at the excellent Hôtel Bernard. It does not take long to wash the dust off and I am shortly en route in a carriage to investigate the old Cité. How ridiculously slowly these horses move, how the trap jolts! It is hot and dusty and there is no singing of the wind as we do not rush along.

I would advise those who would retain their romantic impressions of Carcassonne to content themselves with the vision which greets their eyes in the approach and passing. Then the Cité will dawn and vanish clothed in all the romance of its centuries, but when you really approach its walls and, crossing its drawbridge, enter its portals, all the romance vanishes in a flash. I suppose, as an example of a walled and fortified town, it was well to restore Carcassonne, but from a picturesque and romantic point, such restorations are always a failure. Carcassonne in ruins and covered with trailing vines would yet speak and relate its story, holding you enthralled for hours as you clambered over ruined towers and churches and the abodes of those so long dead. There are the foundations laid by the Romans, with the superstructures of the Visigoths and the battlements of later periods. In yonder citadel there are dungeons under dungeons, and a prison of the Inquisition. That cathedral was founded in the fifth century, rebuilt in the eleventh and twelfth, and restored in 1853. In fact to-day you will find a perfectly restored city, (and still the work goes on), its angles are all sharp, as though cut out of cardboard. You may not enter its citadel used as barracks, but you will in the tour of its walls mount perfectly new stairs, unlock new doors, and find sound floors beneath your feet. Not a shadow of romance or interest attaches to any of this, nor can you re-people in your imagination the place with the life of long ago. As a most perfect example of a walled town it is worthy of inspection, but Viollet-le-Duc has done so much for it and written so much about it, that it would be useless to enter here into detailed description. Loches which we will visit later, is to me of far greater interest and it cannot be said that that is merely a castle and this a whole city, for within those walls is an entire town, and there the ghosts are ever present to one's thoughts.

Carcassonne dates from the days of the Romans, but its higher and greater wall was erected by Theodoric, King of the Visigoths, upon the site of the Roman structure. With the advent of the Moors (713), silence descends upon its history, and does not raise the curtain for four centuries. Of this occupation there are no traces; which is most unusual—not a horseshoe arch or a bit of Arabic in all the town, yet it is said to derive its name from a Saracen Queen named Carcas.

The next we learn of it is in the year 1209 when it is besieged in the name of the Pope by Simon de Montfort.

The result of the Albigensian "heresy"—this revolt against the symbolism and mysteries of the Church of Rome—fell heavily upon all this section but most terribly upon Carcassonne when Simon de Montfort with a French army attacked this French fortress.

Baptism, the Mass, the Adoration of the Cross, and the sale of indulgences were absolutely rejected—with what effect one can imagine;—all this some centuries before Luther. The danger of this to the Pope and his Church promptly moved the powers of Rome to action. Béziers, through which we passed this morning, was the first point of attack, when forty thousand were slain. No quarter was given—orthodox and infidel, in all one thousand were put to death—"God will know his own," shouted the Abbé of Cîteaux; "slay them all."

Into its great Church of St. Nazaire crowded both men and women, and the priest tolled the bells until all were dead. The news of this horror caused every town to open its gates save Carcassonne, which for fourteen days was the scene of continual slaughter before it fell through want of water and famine. It is stated that three hundred thousand from all over Europe assembled here, drawn by the promises of pardon and indulgences.

How peaceful the scene to-day! How green the grass, and how blue the heavens!

It was Louis IX, who made the "Key of the South" impregnable, clearing away the surrounding town and establishing it across the river where it now is. He had the outer line of the fortifications constructed around the Cité, forming a sure refuge in all the wars with Spain. Carcassonne was never again taken by storm and when the Black Prince devastated the lower town, the Cité did not open its gates. It is stated that it required one thousand four hundred men to defend these walls and to this must be added some two thousand workmen, servants, etc.—To-day a few cannon would soon blow these towns into dust.

The custodian rolls all of this off to you as he pilots you around the inner wall, up and down ladders and staircases, and into all sorts of impossible places, which would be of interest if they were not all so new; but the theatrical effect is beautiful, and so theatrical that one is surprised to find this tower of stone, not canvas, and yonder battlement entirely safe to lean upon. From the ramparts, the traveller will observe that between the outer and inner walls the space was once occupied by the hovels of the poor, but they are all gone now, and also that, around the outer circle where the moat once was, the grass mounts to the wall itself, so that one may encircle the Cité and find nothing to distract one's attention from the old town save the wonderfully beautiful panorama of the distant mountains or far stretching valleys, all violet and pale rose in the light of the fading day. In his inspection of the Cité one finds nothing of interest save the church, as the houses are those of the middle classes. The church holds some interesting monuments. There is no semblance of palace or "hôtel de ville," and the château seems but an empty shell. I am not allowed to enter it, which I do not greatly regret, and so turning again I pass one of the portals,—and emerge from the walls of the Cité, the outer circle of which is some sixteen hundred and the inner twelve hundred yards in circumference, so that the space enclosed is not so great as that at Loches, I think. Carcassonne has but two portals, each over double draws and many portcullises. Its towers are all named and, as I have stated, they have not forgotten to call one the Tower of the Inquisition, with, I doubt not, much truth, but its walls are new, its door and floors both new, and when one enters into comparisons—which at all times are odious—with Loches, Nuremberg, or Salzburg, one quietly turns from Carcassonne, gets into the carriage and drives away, wishing again that one had been contented with that first fantastic panorama spread against that tawny sky.

[CHAPTER VI]

THE ROUTE TO TOULOUSE—GREAT MACHINES ON THE ROADS OF FRANCE—DELIGHTS OF AN AUTO—TOULOUSE—ITS UNIVERSITY—THE CHÂTEAU DE ST. ELIX

There is nothing of interest between Carcassonne and Toulouse and so we speed along at thirty-six miles an hour on the wide highways reaching Toulouse at eleven o'clock A.M.; seventy-five miles in just two hours is quite fast enough, for the wings again come out and the sensation is therefore as near angelic as mortal man is permitted to enjoy. The projection of our hood prevents that incurling of dust, which is the curse of autos without these tops, and I find that my linen keeps remarkably clean. I could have gotten along with much less clothing, and I have only a shirt case full as it is. A dress-suit case with perhaps the addition of a hand-bag, will hold all that a man needs.

Such a ride as that of to-day demonstrates one of the many advantages of an auto over a carriage and horses. One can loiter when desirable, but one can also pass quickly over the tedious stretches which must occur in all journeys. To-day, for instance, we covered the seventy-five miles with actual pleasure, while the journey in a carriage would have taken two long, hot dusty days of absolutely no interest.

An auto is also cheaper than a team. I could not have hired any sort of horses and a comfortable trap for less than ten dollars a day and could use the team certainly not longer than ten hours per day, whereas this machine, a 25-horse-power, at twenty dollars per day, costs me less than a dollar an hour and can be used every hour of the twenty-four. So that ride of seventy-five miles, all expenses included, cost about two dollars. Of course, the expense of renting an auto by the month counts in the possible delays by sickness, or otherwise, but I have so far had none of these occur, and if I may be allowed to anticipate, can state that in the three months' tour covering nearly five thousand miles, I was never laid up save when I so desired. If I had owned the machine, my expenses would have been enormous. Mr. B. of New York, whose auto (a new one) met him at Naples, told me that he had spent one thousand dollars in tires between that city and Paris. I have paid my twenty dollars per day, and no extras save the board and lodging of my chauffeur. If I lived in Paris I should own an auto, but under no other circumstances. It is always cheaper and more satisfactory to rent than to own. This holds good with electrics as well as gasoline. For three seasons I rented an electric in Newport. It was brought in the morning and taken away at any hour I desired, late or early, and all expenses were covered by the two hundred dollars per month. For two seasons there I owned an electric which cost me certainly one hundred dollars per month and I had it barely half the time and was never sure of it. It ended by my giving it to my brother-in-law, who has scarcely spoken to me since. If you own, your chauffeur, like your butler, is forced to be in league with the tradesman. If you rent, he makes nothing by accident or delay and runs the risk of being dismissed by his employer if the car meets with accidents or delay through his fault. Of course, the pleasure, and a great one, of running the car is lost. I have not and shall not attempt that at all, as I well know that if I ran it but ten feet and all went well, any accident which occurred during the after time would be attributed to that ten feet. I should certainly wish to feel very sure of myself before running a great car on these roads where those of tremendous speed are constantly passing me. The slightest nervousness or error as to handle bars would mean death to all. I neglected to add that owners of cars must insure against all accidents, and also insure the life of the driver, whereas renting, as I did, from a responsible party, all that was upon his shoulders, not mine. If the car had been wrecked past repair and the chauffeur killed, in fact, from every sort of accident, I was held blameless.

When I dismissed it at Geneva, I asked George whether it would be of service for another long tour. "Certainly, sir. It would be well to expend about one hundred dollars on it, but it would go all right without even that. We have covered nearly five thousand miles and it is in very good condition. Also we have met with no losses, save a few pneumatics." But I anticipate—

I noticed at Montpellier, when Jean thought a new envelope was necessary for one of the rear wheels, he telegraphed to the owner at Nice before he bought it.

Toulouse, a city of 150,000 people, is one of the most prosperous in France, but it is not a place of interest for the tourist, and if the automobilist finds dusty, disagreeable roads anywhere in France it will be around this city of the Southwest, because of the very high winds prevailing in this section. Its past dates back some centuries before its capture by the Romans, and around and in it history has been made hard and fast throughout all these passing years until the present, when it is happy, contented, and prosperous, even if commonplace. It possesses probably the oldest literary institution in Europe, dating from 1300, and one which observes the singular custom of distributing flowers of gold and silver to its laureates; all of its prizes take the form of different flowers in gold or silver.

But this does not interest the ordinary mortal and as we roll into the city over her rough pavements, I feel ordinary,—the high, hot winds irritate, and I am glad, after a very comfortable luncheon at a very good hotel to start forth towards Pau.

The people of Toulouse have evidently never seen a Japanese before and I feel sorry for Yama, so great is the crowd around us at all times, but if he objects to the scrutiny his stolid, expressionless face gives no sign thereof.

The day becomes hot as we turn southward toward St. Gaudens. About an hour and a half out, an ancient château, evidently unpolluted by restoration, is seen on the right. I hesitate as to whether I shall stop, but it is hot and we are moving so well that I give up the idea, when, pop! a tire is torn wide open. Now we must stop and not three hundred yards from the château, which an old peasant, washing clothes in a brook, tells me is well worth a visit, and the lord of the manor willing to allow one. In the meantime poor Jean is down in the dust and when he pulls out the pneumatic finds a hole as large as a dime. Heat is the worst enemy of these pneumatics as the delicate rubber will not stand it. However, the work is finally done and we move off to the entrance of the Château de St. Elix. It is surrounded by its village and one approaches through an avenue guarded by stately gates. A wide moat in which water still flows is crossed by an ancient bridge, and beyond rises a structure of the date of Francis I. A central portion with an enormously high mansard roof is supported by two huge round towers, one on either side, crowned by cone-shaped tops. A winding step leads to the main portal, where a servant stands awaiting my approach. "I am a traveller, will it be permitted to inspect the château? I am told it is of great interest." I hand in my card which is carried to the master off somewhere in the out-buildings, which on one side appear to be stables, on the other, gardener's cottages and hot-houses. When he comes I meet a pleasant-faced young Frenchman, who smilingly conducts me to the house, his home, to which he seems much attached, and to me it proved most interesting.

A long wide hall leads straight from the front door out upon a rear terrace which overlooks a great square garden holding many rows of cedar trees cut in all sorts of fantastic shapes, no two alike. One represents a huge bird upon its nest, another a layer of mushrooms, while a third is round as a ball, and a fourth square as a box. "They have been trimmed that way for centuries and would not know how to grow otherwise."

But to return to the house. We enter a vast apartment with heavy rafters gilded, and in blue. Its walls are hung in ancient Flemish tapestry and a huge fire-place occupies one end. There are many curious pictures and ancient objects of art. Evidently the place has remained unchanged for centuries. What a sense of repose these places afford one, how far off the bustle of the world seems! I mention this to mine host, but he shakes his head replying, "There is little peace in France." In one of the great round towers is a library, and behind the salon a wide drawing-room where things are of the fashion of the great Louis, and where that monarch would not feel the lapse of years or out of place if he could return. Crimson damask, fast going to tatters, cover the walls, from which ladies in high wigs and gentlemen in court dresses question "your presence here in such a costume." The Grand Mademoiselle is in great array, but Marie Antoinette knows the vanity and sorrow of all things and smiles sadly at you. Here I discover that the present family have owned the château for only one century. The portraits are all of the ancient race who died out long ago. That painting under the groined roof of the great hall is of the last of that line, the Baron de St. Elix, who died childless and so the house passed to strangers. Whether the Terror was the cause of his death or not, I could not discover, but that man in the hall would have gone to the guillotine with dignity, of that I am sure. If his shade ever returns, he must feel grieved at the sadness of these old towers of his race. Some of that same sadness is reflected in the face of the present owner as he watches us speed away into the greater world of which he knows so little and which means life and progress to him. The sunlight strikes athwart the ancient portal and the stately towers, turning the garden into green and gold, lighting the village and its ancient dames in a sad sort of fashion, emphasizing the silence which is a part of it all.

A turn in the long avenue and we are off and away down the dusty highway, leaving the Château de St. Elix to its dull repose.

[CHAPTER VII]

THE DEATH OF A DOG—ENCOUNTERS ON THE HIGHWAY—TRAVELLERS BY THE WAY—PEOPLE OF THE PROVINCES—LOURDES—HER SUPERSTITION AND HER VISIONS

Later in the day as we speed down a long incline the only thing in sight is a huge van drawn by three horses tandem. Jean sounds his horn constantly, which has the effect of causing them to straggle all across the road. No man is in sight—nothing save an old dog that is working his best to get the horses into line and out of our way. This he succeeds in doing, but alas, though Jean does his best to save him, he goes down under our wheels and I distinctly feel the crunch, crunch, as we pass over his poor old body, driving the life out. As I look back, it is only an old dog dead in the dusty highway with some old horses gazing down at his quiet figure. They have been friends for so many years,—it is all over now. When we see the stupid driver emerge from beneath the van, where he has been asleep in a swinging basket, we almost regret that it was not he instead of the old dog. My man did his best to save the dog and felt as badly as I did over his death, but he must have ditched the auto with danger to us and wreck for the machine to have done other than he did.

These vans are the terror of these highways and the government should either banish the automobiles or force the van drivers to attend to their charges. We passed dozens to-day with the drivers fast asleep underneath, as was this man, or if not asleep then yards behind their teams. Several times serious wrecking was prevented only by Jean's cool head and prompt hand. There should be a law passed and enforced with a fine, that would correct matters. The death of that poor old dog saddened the whole day.

About five o'clock in the afternoon, as the shadows lengthened and we were passing slowly through the streets of Lannemezan, on rounding a corner we were confronted by two hogs and a driver—the lesser beast fled away in terror, but the larger—a good-sized porker,—kept his place firmly planted in the middle of the road, while with his ears pointed forward and snout lowered, he gravely regarded our approach as much as to say, "Let me see, let me see, what have we here?" Just then Jean ran the machine gently against him and bowled him over, whereupon the air was rent asunder by squeals from his astounded and indignant pigship, and a volley of oaths in the patois of this section from his master, which together with remarks from Jean and shrieks of laughter from Yama rendered the spot anything but tranquil. The personalities and profanities of these two Frenchmen would certainly have caused their telephones to be removed if passed thereover.

Our route all the afternoon is glorious, on a high table-land, overlooking the Garonne and commanding the sparkling Pyrenees as far as the eye can reach both east and west; the air is fresh and full of life.

St. Gaudens and Montréjeau are passed in turn, and Tarbes reached at six o'clock, where we descend at the Hôtel de la Paix on the main square. The hotels in all this section show the influence of Spain. This one has a patio and the one at Carcassonne also possessed one with a raised platform at the end over which a vine was twined and under which Carmen might have carried on her flirtations. Three autos arrived while I was in Carcassonne, a large one with three Englishmen, which had destroyed three tires that day and caught on fire; a small one of twelve horse-power with three men, and one just like ours, of twenty-four horse-power. This held a lady, a maid, and two dogs. Imagine travelling in an auto with two dogs. Jean says the lady is an American countess and seems surprised when I tell him that we have no titles in America. He might have replied that we try to marry as many as possible, which is quite true, to our sorrow generally. This person looked like a painted countess of the stage.

One must journey through the provinces in France to find her men and understand the source of her past power. Those we meet with daily are a fine, manly looking lot of fellows, bright eyes and erect, sturdy figures, nothing effeminate about them, in all ways superior to the men of the towns who would seem to be descended from the old men and boys, all Napoléon left in the land in his wild race for self glory. What a magnificent figure his would have been in history had he placed France first and remained First Consul! How absurd that play at Emperor! Of his military and executive genius there can be no question, but for his own glory he deliberately sacrificed France and hundreds of thousands of her best men. His family playing at royalty always reminds one of some stage performance; "Belles of the Kitchen", for example.

I think we made a mistake in coming via Toulouse. It would have been more interesting to have gone via Montreal, Pamiers, and St. Gaudens. If I ever come this way again, I shall keep nearer the Pyrenees. The run to-day has covered from Carcassonne at nine o'clock to Tarbes at six, one hundred and seventy-five miles. It is but thirty miles further into Pau, but man and master both are weary and the auto must be hot, to say the least.

THE GROTTO AT LOURDES
By permission of Messrs. Lévy

In Tarbes,—at the Hôtel de la Paix,—we find our last stopping place before Pau, a town with a comfortable little inn and but little else of interest. From there we turn southwest for an inspection of that centre of the greatest superstition of the nineteenth century, Lourdes. The ride is a pleasant one down, or rather up, a valley with a rushing river. Lourdes is found nestling in a nook of the foot-hills of the Pyrenees while high in its centre rises an ancient castle with the distant range of snow as a background. The location is beautiful, much like Salzburg, but Lourdes is a bustling busy city full of fine shops and big hotels, though I think I should have to be paid handsomely to sleep in any bed in the town. This is not the season, and therefore we perhaps have a better opportunity to inspect the theatre of the place, for one can call it by no other name. Beyond the castle and in a valley one first sees a sweeping circle of arches forming an approach to a species of Pantheon, at least shaped like the Roman structure and on a rock directly behind and above towers a Gothic church. Both are crammed with votive offerings of all sorts and descriptions. Passing around to the right one comes upon the sacred grotto. It is directly under the higher church, in fact, in the rock upon which that edifice stands, a simple grotto of slight depth and some thirty feet high. In a niche on the right is an image of the Virgin in white with a blue scarf. Hundreds of votive candles blaze and smoke in the grotto, smudging the whole with nasty soot. The sacred and healing spring issues from a spigot, in the front centre of the grotto, and the faithful are constantly drinking its water. Rows of benches occupy the space before the cave, which is enclosed by an iron grill, wherefore! one wonders. Certainly there is no one who would steal those candles and there is nothing else. On the left one sees a tablet upon which is inscribed the words of the peasant's dream as uttered by the Virgin, "Go to Lourdes, bathe, drink, and be cleansed," while the entire space and roof of the grotto is hung thickly with the discarded crutches, wooden legs, &c., &c., of those who, following the divine instructions, were healed. The water has been conducted into adjacent baths for men and for women, and I fancy it is the unusual cleanliness which produced the cures. Certainly there are many past all hope of cure even here, for the place is full of disgusting beggars. The whole affair is, as Jean announced, "good for commerce and politics." It is the greatest evidence of the superstition of the Middle Ages which Europe can show to-day. Let us leave it. Lourdes as God made it and its ancient rulers left it, is beautiful; Lourdes as that name means to-day is vile. No one with any regard for his health would venture near there while a pilgrimage is in progress. It is a relief to get off into the country where disease does not seem to hang in the air.

[CHAPTER VIII]

PAU AND THE LIFE THERE—DELIGHTFUL ROADS—ANCIENT ORTHEZ—MADAME AND HER HOTEL—THE CHÂTEAU OF BIDACHE AND ITS HISTORY

Our ride to Pau is down the banks of the Gave de Pau, past quaint towns and churches and many mineral baths. Near noon, that well known watering-place of Southern France comes into view, her famous terrace rising high over the river; crowned by a line of hotels and villas, and with the ancient castle, the birthplace of Henry IV, rising majestically at its further end. In the valley rushes the Gave and beyond the foot-hills the higher Pyrenees rise tier on tier to the snows and clouds. The prospect is enchanting.

I should imagine that one might become very fond of Pau. It is a quaint old city, delightfully placid, and its promenade like one great proscenium box with God's theatre of the mountains holding perpetual performance before you, and most of your time will be passed on that terrace watching the lights and shadows as they chase each other past the many mountain peaks into far-off valleys leading into Spain. You will find yourself quoting Lucile on the slightest provocation, and will become romantic if you remain too long. The window of my room in the Hôtel de France,—a good hostelry by the way,—overlooked terrace, valley, and mountains, and I found myself hanging out of it in a most dangerous fashion at all hours of the day and night, until sleep and the murmuring river drove me to bed.

The lover of golf will find in Pau, I am told, the best links in Europe. The hunter may follow the paper fox any day and the drives must be endless and all beautiful. Yet I fancy the stranger in Pau has little time to spend on them,—the social life being more attractive. It seems to be a pleasant existence, not too strenuous, and composed of pleasant people. The usual run of tourist does not come here, which is greatly in its favour.

Its château, which has been judiciously restored, holds many beautiful rooms and much of interest within its wall, but I shall not describe so well known a building.

Monday, April 3d.

The day of our departure opens cloudy with threatening rain and I am in doubt as to going forward. However it may clear by ten, and as Jean has been "summoned" for fast driving and is now in court, we must wait at all events. I do not know why they have selected Jean for a victim. We are not of the great racing community and never have gone more than thirty-eight miles an hour. Perhaps it is because of the killing of the poor old dog, or maybe because of the old lady who climbed a tree,—then again that porker may have entered protest at our too close attentions. However, it will be but a small fine if anything. Jean returns disgusted. It was all because of a "spurt" a month ago between Nice and Monte Carlo when Mr. E. had the auto. They made no move during the weeks in Nice but tracked him by his number all over our crooked course from Nice here.

We are finally off after having bidden mine host of the Hôtel de France au revoir, with thanks for the pleasant days passed in his excellent establishment and having insulted the little fat porter by asking him if he is not a German,—an insult wiped out by a franc. We roll off through the streets of this ancient capital and for a dozen kilometers fairly skim over the long white road, when an appearing sign-post shows Jean that he is off his route and we must perforce return until we find a cross-road that will put us on our way once more, a course which proves to be one of the longest stretches of straight road which we have encountered and for mile after mile the auto fairly flies. It is cloudy and there is no dust, so the sensation is delightful. It is marvellous how quickly the nerves become used to this rapid motion, so that one minds it no more than in a railway train, nor is the speed realized until the auto begins to slow down. One certainly loses all fear and ceases to hold on for dear life, and also is no more alarmed for the safety of men and beasts,—not that auto cars instill a desire for murder, but one certainly does become a species of Nero, and had that gentleman possessed an auto, Rome would not have been forced to endure so many quiet days under his rule as history relates. There would at least have been greater variety, and the game of nine pins, with useless Christians as the pins and autos as the balls, would have been much in vogue.

We halt in the town of Orthez for luncheon and I note an ancient tower which will be visited after the inner man has become satisfied. The Grand Hôtel is another of those comfortable little inns with which France abounds and the smiling landlady assured me that when she saw us rush by she knew we would return, for there was no more comfortable inn than hers and no more agreeable landlady than herself in all France. How impossible it would be in America to find in our small towns such accommodations. Here is a scrupulously clean house and I am served with a most appetising luncheon. Two kinds of native wines, a good soup, shirred eggs, an entrée, a nice piece of steak with potatoes, a pastry, cheese, fruit and coffee, all good, and for three francs.

Orthez, the ancient capital of Béarn, is a very quaint old town. Its tower is a remnant of the château of the Counts of Béarn and its streets, bordered by ancient dwellings with high slate roofs, belong to long past days. The world would never have returned to these old towns of France but for the autos, and under their passing all the post-houses are opening their eyes once more, like old gentlemen aroused from a nap, and the horns of the modern machine are not unlike in sound the ancient post-horns.

THE BRIDGE OVER THE GAVE AT ORTHEZ
By permission of Messrs. Lévy

After luncheon I mount the hill to the tower, which I find in stately seclusion amidst a grove of trees and still surrounded by its moat full of stagnant water. I have it all to myself and the old stones seem desirous of telling their store of legends from the days of chivalry. The tower reminds me of Niddry, from whose windows the Scotch queen gazed downward on her first day of freedom after Lochleven. Like Niddry this is but an empty shell now, but the view from it is characteristic of France. Long lines of white highways bordered by stately Lombardy poplars, a smiling river wandering here and there, now through quiet meadows and just there where it passes through Orthez, under an ancient bridge with a tower in its centre. The steep roofs of the old town cluster around the base of the castle hill and a tall church spire points the way to heaven. On the green slopes of the hills are numerous châteaux embowered in blossoming fruit trees, lilies bloom in the stagnant moat of the castle, tall and fair, and some yellow flowers yonder cast a cascade of gold over the delicate tracery of a ruined archway.

Descending the hill, I express to Madame at the hotel my feelings that she lives in an interesting old town. "Oui, Monsieur, mais très triste." Surely, but places that have watched the passing of so many centuries, with all their joys and sorrows, must seem sad.

Our ride during the afternoon is delightful, not by the direct route to Bayonne but via Sauveterre and Bidache. As we approach the latter place, a turn in the road brings in view a magnificent mansion, part castle and part palace. As it rises majestically on its terrace above the river it resembles Linlithgow, is as stately as Rheinfels, and, like both, is all in ruins. An old peasant on the highway tells us that many visitors go there and so Jean turns the auto into a shady lane and drives past some old cottages, near one of which the custodian stands smiling and is more than willing to go with us to yonder stately mansion, through whose empty windows the birds are flying and over whose walls the ivy tumbles in dark green masses. It is the property of the Ducs de Gramont, though they seldom come here. We wander into the court of honour, into the banquet hall, open now to all the winds of heaven; stop a moment to gaze upon the majestic keep, and passing on emerge upon the terrace from which another vision of the fair land of France is spread before us. Seated here the old custodian tells her story. "This is the Château de Bidache, Monsieur, et de Gramont." It is not certainly known when it was founded but it was so long, long ago that it seems to have been here since time was. It is known to have existed in the eleventh century at which period its masters, the Barons de Gramont, were in continual strife with their neighbors, the Seigneurs d'Asqs and de Guiche, or uniting with them against the neighbouring city of Bayonne or any other which offered the show of an exciting encounter,—the necessary breath of life to the lords of those dark ages. England and Navarre both claimed its allegiance and its history has been the history of Navarre and France throughout all the years.

CHÂTEAU OF BIDACHE
From a photograph

One of the most adventurous of the lords of Bidache would appear to have been Arnaud Guilhem II. de Gramont (1275). In wars with England, Navarre, and Spain, he sustained two sieges in the Château which was taken and burned. Then followed exile and departure for the Crusades, and a return at sixty-nine years of age. His tomb in the church of Villeneuve la Montarie was opened in 1860, when his long sword, casque, and spurs of gold were found in good condition after a lapse of five hundred and eighty-five years. He was but one of the many who made Bidache the theatre of their lives.

The Château was reconstructed in 1530, upon what scale and in what fashion you may see to-day even in its ruins.

In 1610, Louise Comtesse de Gramont, for an "intrigue galante", was tried by her husband's order before the parliament of Bidache, convicted, and executed. The endeavours of her father to save her, even by the aid of the King of France, were without avail, though the Count was later forced to grant her sepulchre in the tombs of his ancestors where she was interred with much state and ceremony. On this condition he was guaranteed relief from all attempts at revenge by the blood kin of the unfortunate lady.

Mazarin was entertained here in great state when he returned from negotiating the treaty of the Pyrenees; then the Château and all the country round about was en fête for days and Bidache was in the heyday of its popularity.

Years of silence settled after that upon the Castle, during which in the days of the great Louis this terrace, where I sit writing these notes, was constructed. Whatever sorrow this Louis XIV. brought upon France, the land certainly owes much of its beauty of architecture, which still abides, to him. Not alone in the Royal palaces but in or around almost every château of the land, one is sure to find something beautiful of his day. This terrace redoubles the charm and stateliness of Bidache, and when mortals lived within these walls it must have been a continual joy; it is so to-day to all who come this way.

Most of the improvements in the private châteaux were accomplished while the owners thereof suffered banishment from the court. Such was the case here with the lord of Bidache during the reign of Louis XIV. As usual another affair of love. To the terrace he added orangeries, fountains, and vast stables,—the latter still exist,—and Bidache reached the acme of its splendour in his day. Its library, placed on the ground floor of the great tower, was lighted from above by a dome more than thirty feet in diameter; below was a magnificent gallery of paintings (all destroyed in the final conflagration save those which had been taken to Paris) while the ground floor of the castle formed a vast armory, full of ancient and modern weapons.

In the Revolution, the Château was not greatly disturbed and certainly was not destroyed in that convulsion. It remained for a dishonest agent to commence this work during the period of the emigration and for a great conflagration on a night of 1796 to reduce the immense structure in ten hours to the state in which we find it to-day. However, no fire or storm can entirely destroy Bidache and as I wander through its superb court of honour and gaze upon its mighty towers and walls there is enough left, bowered as it is in curtains of ivy and many flowers, to impress itself upon the memory for many a day, to be remembered always as a thing of beauty, even after its death.

Turning reluctantly away, I bid the custodian farewell; she tells me she is very old and will not be here if I return, "save yonder where Monsieur can see the crosses on the hillside." I depart under her benediction, and, while Jean is at work and the auto beginning to breathe, I turn curiously to the present dwelling of the Duke of Gramont.

He comes here every year and occupies this very unpretentious structure just outside the park gates,—a long low, two-storied house. There is certainly a satisfaction to him in knowing that he has just claim to that stately ruin yonder with its history and its wealth of associations, and he shows his good taste in not attempting a restoration. Moving swiftly, the auto glides down a hill and off and away across the valley, while I turn for one last glimpse of the stately mansion, the Château de Bidache.

[CHAPTER IX]

THE ROUTE TO BIARRITZ—BIARRITZ—THE HÔTEL DU PALAIS

The route thence into Bayonne is hilly and winding but good withal. Our car moves rapidly forward with all wings spread until that prosperous city is reached and passed, and we are on the route to Biarritz. The deep and powerfully-flowing river Adour near by shows the influence of the neighbouring ocean and there is that sense of spaciousness, that freedom of body and spirit to be experienced only by the sea, on the higher mountains, or upon our vast Western plains.

The traveller does not see the ocean itself until his machine mounts the last hill before reaching Biarritz. Nature has found it necessary to erect a huge barrier against the onslaught of all that water which just here in the right angle formed by the coasts of France and Spain rolls in with such terrible force that no wall built by man is able to withstand it. Hence the God of the earth erected these hills to protect his domain in the eternal warfare with the God of the sea, and Biarritz has set herself down on the outer side of the hills to have a good view of the conflict. Her green and pink villas and many hotels spread out before one on either hand, and down below cluster the hotels close to the water where even on "a quiet day" their windows are splashed by the attacking waves.

Fortunately the God of the earth has made this coast a rocky one, using these foot-hills of the Pyrenees as buffers against the sea; otherwise, the town would vanish some stormy night. In fact, even a rock barrier does not appear to have protected at this point, for surely in some wild moment of rage the storm dragon did seize a large mouthful from just this corner of Europe,—thus forming the Bay of Biscay,—and turning, dropped it in the shape of the Island of New Foundland in the dreariest portion of the Western Atlantic. (Examine the map for yourself.) There he hides his plunder in perpetual mists, where the fishermen from this coast go down to their graves annually by the hundreds.

Here to-day all is glorious sunshine with no thoughts of disaster. Off to the southwest the sparkling mountains of Spain stretch out and out until they blend with the swirling waters of the Bay of Biscay gleaming blackly, while to the northward the coast of France bears away on guard against further encroachments.

As we roll into the outskirts of the town of Biarritz, the route is mostly between high walls draped in trailing vines and pierced with iron gateways, through whose trellis-work stiff walks bordered by formal flower beds, are to be seen leading up to much more formal villas. There are some quaint signs on the many little hotels; here, for instance, is the "Inn of the Parlor of Love" in a shady corner all by itself. Jean seems inclined to stop, but I veto the inclination, and rolling swiftly onward, we shortly draw up at the door of the Hôtel du Palais, recently opened and so new that its magnificence hurts both the sense of smell and sight. It was originally the palace of the Empress Eugenie and stands just over the sea.

Turned into an hotel in 1893, it was burned down two years ago, and this is the rebuilt structure. Part of the palace remains. The main staircase is the original, and that woman in the days of her power and vanity must have swept down it many times. Even now she is not forgotten, as all the chandeliers bear the letters "N" and "E" in monogram. The location is magnificent, on the rocks right over the sea, whose waves in stormy times dash on the terrace and spray all the windows.

This is the so-called little season in Biarritz, the great season comes in July, August, and September, when the place is crowded, but now it is only pleasantly full, though this new hotel is not half filled.

This Grand Hôtel du Palais is evidently the Sherry's and Ritz's of Biarritz. The same life, exactly the same amount of gold lace and the same eternal dinner parties. As for the people, I fancy they are always English, Russians, or Americans. No German would pay the prices, much less a Frenchman. Yet they do not seem exorbitant. I have a very large front room with a commodious and complete bathroom, both having all the modern improvements, for which I pay twenty francs. The dinner is eight francs, and coffee and eggs three francs; add two oranges to the coffee and eggs and in New York it would be ninety cents, here certainly not more than seventy cents.

The house is a spacious structure, with grand marble halls, with an attractive dining-room almost on the water, and there is certainly one feature which to my taste could be adopted to advantage in our hotels. The old table d'hôte has vanished from Europe, with all its weary details. The long tables are gone and now the dining-rooms are filled with small tables. In most of the houses, as here for instance, one may dine at any time from seven to nine and the dinner is excellent, all one could wish to offer to any guest. I have been many times wearied and disgusted by the long bills of fare offered at our best hotels; what to order, and to be obliged to order at all is to me the great drawback. How much more attractive to find a good dinner ready whenever you desire and without words or thought. Let someone else do that for you, as the Shah said about our dancing. The dinner here costs only eighteen francs, and it is better than many a so-called feast at our American houses. The tables are beautifully decked with all that can be desired from flowers to linen and the service excellent.

[CHAPTER X]

THE ROAD TO THE MOUNTAINS—ST. JEAN-PIED-DE-PORT—ST. JEAN-DE-LUZ—MARRIAGE OF LOUIS XIV.—ISLAND OF PHEASANTS—THE ROADS IN SPAIN—THE SOLDIERS OF SPAIN—SAN SEBASTIAN

The Bay of Biscay roars in a sullen monotone this morning, but the clouds are high up and in the warm sunshine the valleys glow with the blossom of the fruit trees while the air is laden with the perfume of flowers and sweet grasses. We are bowling along toward St. Jean-Pied-de-Port, some fifty miles away at the base of the Pyrenees. The road is fine and the machine in good condition. Jean sings as he turns on full speed until we fairly fly down and up the hills and over long stretches of curving road. This is quite off the grand route and we meet no autos all the distance. The natives are more than usually surprised at our advent and the animals have evidently not known enough about such machines to be afraid of them. As we speed down a hill I notice in the road what appear to be small piles of brush; but as we near them, they begin to move and, as Jean with a swish and a jerk passes to one side, some small ears and a nose or two emerge from the bundles which have paused in a startled sort of fashion and a loud, scared "Hee-haw, hee-haw" rends the soft spring air. Those are quite the smallest donkeys I have ever seen impressed into service; in fact, later on, one sturdy boy simply picks up his beast and deposits it in a place of safety. They are always amusing animals to me. They never lose their ruminating tendencies inherited from ancestors bred in the silence of distant deserts, and save, as now, by the pointing of an ear or by a loud "hee-haw," take no notice of our rushing progress. They were here before auto cars and will be here when autos are things of the past.

We find St. Jean-Pied-de-Port deep in a dell in the foot-hills, and in a quaint little inn, furnished chiefly by dishes hung on the wall, we are served with refreshment for the inner man. As I enter the little dining-room, I find there two groups; in one is an Englishman and his wife, in the other, two Frenchmen. The former studiously avoid a glance, when I am looking in their direction; we must be in no way aware of the existence of each other—we have "never been introduced." The Frenchmen both bow as they meet my eye and in a few moments we are pleasantly conversing. You can make your choice, but to me the latter custom is more agreeable in travelling. Not that I do not like the English, for I most certainly do, still one cannot have too many of these small courtesies in one's fleeting life, and after all, it is the minute things which make our sunshine.

After luncheon I am recommended by the landlord to visit the castle which rises on a hill near the hotel. I have mounted but part way to the height where it stands when a soldier warns me off, "It is not permitted." I suppose the same regulations must hold all over the republic, but it would certainly seem an altogether useless rule off in these mountains, and one would have imagined from the peremptory gestures made that that old ruin was the key to France.

On our return trip we make a long detour to the west, where the roads are not so good and we are glad to strike the main highway once more and speed back to Biarritz.

While Spain is not commended for an auto tour, one can at least go so far into the ancient kingdom as the city of San Sebastian, her great watering place in the north.

The route hence, as far as the French frontier, is a delight to the automobilist. It rises and falls like the lines of a roller coaster or "Montagnes Russes" and you sail up on one side and down the other with a most delicious motion. Hills rise and fall, one's heart is gay and the scene is charming. To the right sparkles the deep blue Atlantic, while to the east and in front and far off to the westward, along the Spanish coast, range the sparkling Pyrenees.

MAISON DE L'INFANTE AT ST. JEAN-DE-LUZ
From a photograph

As we roll into the plaza of St. Jean-de-Luz the people are dancing a fandango and I pause awhile to view the sight. The quaint old place is surrounded on three sides by its ancient houses. That of King Louis XIV. is to your left, while the square towers of the one which sheltered the Infanta are across the plaza, and those are seen in the accompanying illustration. Through the portals of the queer old church the fragrance of frankincense rolls out to you, while the air is full of the wild barbaric music of the land and the sound of the neighbouring ocean. In couples or singly as the humour seizes them, the people are dancing, dancing with a life and a motion known only to the Spaniards and Italians. Flashing eyes and snapping fingers keep time to the shaking of the many tambourines and the clash of sabots. Then the music changes to that of the beautiful Spanish danza; fingers cease to snap and the eyes to flash, and the motion becomes wavy and dream-like, as the dancers float hither and thither over the grass. Then suddenly the multitude falls upon its knees with bowed heads and crossed hands as the Host is borne along to some passing soul.

Passing onward, we pause a moment, to inspect the house where the grand Louis rested the night before he bestowed his affections, together with the crown matrimonial, upon the Infanta of Spain and then turn to her old palace, a quaint red and white brick structure, to which it is said strangers are admitted. A dainty maid answered my clamors of the bell but would not admit me; even the silver key had no effect. I think, had I been younger, matters might have prospered more to my advantage—as it was, I failed ingloriously and took refuge in the church of St. Jean, a very quaint old edifice where the influence of Spain is plainly evident in the rich gilding of the entire choir. Here also the men and women may not worship God together. The women have the whole body of the church while the men are confined to three galleries which rise one above the other on either side. The custom is still in force, but one wonders whether these galleries are over-crowded. If so, the men must be more religious than those in America.

INTERIOR OF THE CHURCH OF SAINT JOHN AT SAINT JEAN-DE-LUZ
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein

The marriage of Louis and the Spanish princess was celebrated in this church of St. Jean, to which the bride advanced over a raised platform from yonder palace of the Queen-mother, Anne of Austria. Robed in white with a mantle of violet-coloured velvet, she is described as undersized, but well made, of fair complexion, and having blue eyes of charming expression; her hair was a light auburn. If she had been taller and had had better teeth, she would have been one of the most beautiful women in Europe.

Louis at that period was at his best, and is described as a head taller than either of his ministers.

Of the celebrated Island of Pheasants, where the Treaty of the Pyrenees and the contracts for this marriage were signed, there is little left. We passed it later on our ride to San Sebastian, turning off to Fontarabia for the purpose. Here, in a room half in France and half in Spain, French in its decorations in one half, Spanish in those of the other half, the Kings of Spain and France met, each advancing from doors exactly the same distance from two arm-chairs, two tables, and two inkstands—one of each in France and one of each in Spain. Neither monarch left his own kingdom but they embraced each other at the border line. We do not enter the Kingdom of Spain here but at Irun where we spend quite half an hour getting the auto and ourselves admitted. We must pay a toll of three francs and also deposit seven francs for the auto with the customs, but this is returned when we come back. Irun is a spot where the millions who have passed this way have paused in their progress to and fro. From the stately caravans down to these automobiles what a procession it has been.

How instantly the type of the people changes as we cross the border! What superb-looking women gaze at one over the line of this frontier! How deep and magnificent are their great black eyes! Yonder is a Spanish blonde with golden hair and brown eyes; what a subject for a painter, in that picturesque dress and framed by that window, draped in wisteria in full bloom!

The little soldier guarding here is funny to look at,—one cannot imagine his meeting fire and ball. Were our late opponents such boys? If so, we committed rank murder. His features are regular and he has fine eyes, but he certainly does not weigh one hundred and twenty pounds and is not five feet tall. However, his conceit is colossal, and he struts up and down with all the dignity of a Don Carlos, paying no attention to me until I happen to dismount near him and he gasps at my six feet and over. After a little, he attempts conversation, and asks if I am English. "No." And I hesitate to add "American," and when I do his eyes look doubtfully into mine until I smile and offer him my hand, which he smilingly accepts, and two francs seal our acquaintance; rather cheaper that than the unnecessary twenty million dollars we paid his country for a possession very doubtful in profit to us, some think, but——. We are off over the road into Spain and at once note the difference in its quality, bumpy and dusty and dirty, all the way, and I think on the whole that the people would rather like a break-down on our part. However, we roll into the modern town of San Sebastian and after a pause of some time turn back to France.

San Sebastian has no interest for the traveller unless there is a bull fight on at its fine amphitheatre, but there is none now and this is not the season here, so we coast back to the protection of the French republic, pausing an instant at the frontier to receive the seven francs.

The little soldier then shows me a wife and baby which he knows is more than I can do. So he smiles at me in happy content and would not think of changing places—that is if he had to leave wife and baby. At all events there is no envy in his glance as my red car speeds off towards France.

[CHAPTER XI]

DEPARTURES FOR THE NORTH—CRAZY CHICKENS—GRAND ROADS—DAX—RIDES THROUGH THE FORESTS—FRENCH SCENERY AND PEOPLE—MARMANDE—"AUTOMOBILE CLUB OF FRANCE" AND ITS WORK

To-day we start for the heart of France. It is misty as we leave the hotel at Biarritz, but mist generally portends a fine day later on.

Our road to Bayonne passes along by the sea and is a delightful highway, running much of the time through fragrant pine trees. There are two routes between Biarritz and Bayonne, but this is much to be preferred to that by which we entered the former town. It is that to the right after passing the walls of Bayonne. In the other, to the left, one is bothered by trams and much traffic. The route by the sea must have been especially constructed for autos, and it is a splendid piece of work. Jean is evidently of the same opinion and much pleased, for he grunts, and the machine flies. Yesterday in one of his wild moments he actually took off the tail feathers of a chicken, with no further injury, so far as we could determine, to her ladyship, who flew to a neighbouring wall, where, missing the accustomed balance of said tail, she ignominiously tumbled into the dung heap on the other side. As we drew away, her lord and master, certainly a Bourbon, stood gazing down upon her very much as the grand Louis must have glared at de Montespan as he turned her out of Court.

Jean absolutely declines to pause or change his course for chickens, but he will do so for dogs. As for cats, the machine has yet to be invented that can take a tabby unawares, much less catch one; on the whole, they can beat an auto on a straight course, and yesterday a hobbled pony gave us a lively brush for an instant and at a fine gait too. Occasionally one meets a dog whose spirits are so broken that he cowers behind any available object moaning in fright, but it is not so generally, and the young steers, of which there are many, never give way. As for geese, they simply retire to a point of safety and scoff at us.

The mist shifts about us all the way to Bayonne, and when we have passed that city, seems to have settled into rain, but we are no sooner made snug by the cover and lap-robes than the clouds break and the sun shines warmly and pleasantly. The same superb condition of the highway noted between Biarritz and Bayonne continues here.

Broad and solid as a floor, it stretches away before us for miles on miles in a perfectly straight line and between Bayonne and Dax I do not think there are a dozen curves. Most of the way is through a thick pine woods where the trees are being tapped for the pitch and the air is heavy with the balsam.

The bed of the road is elevated some four feet above the forest, and as I gaze off on either side, I am reminded of Florida; even the same kind of trees and climbing vines are all around us.

I have heard many who have not travelled in automobiles in France express their fears that these long stretches of straight roadways would prove monotonous, but such is far from the case, and it cannot be, I think, with the delicious rushing motion one's car attains upon them. The run to Dax is rapidly covered and we descend at the Hôtel de la Paix for luncheon, though it is rather early. It is only in the small towns that one finds the pleasant little inns. This one at Dax is dark and dirty and I am greeted by a slovenly old woman who conducts me into an unattractive salle à manger, where the food is none too good. From Dax our route lies towards Mont-de-Marsan, and nearly the whole way is through the forest of pine. Accidents will happen, even to autos, and while we are speeding up a hill, Jean discovers by some signs that there is trouble with our left rear wheel, where we have never had any before, and on examination the ruin is very apparent. We have picked up a crooked nail which has punctured both envelopes and pneumatic. So another pneumatic must be put in place. It gives me an opportunity for a stroll in the pine forests, where I find that every tree has been blazed and to each is affixed a small concave cup; most of these are nearly full of the thick white sap. It is evident that many of these forests have been planted, as the trees stand in regular rows. During most of the day, our route lies through these forests, and is, in consequence, rather monotonous, as we cannot see beyond them, but as we pass Casteljaloux the scene changes to one of those characteristic French prospects, so familiar to most of us; a far-reaching, smiling green valley traversed by the many high-roads along which march the stately rows of Lombardy poplars, a church-crowned town here, and there a smiling river which is crossed by a graceful viaduct in light colored stone, over which a train is speeding; a sense of peace and prosperity over all, and above that a fair blue sky. That is France. One would fancy in contemplating such a picture, that trouble and sorrow never came to such a spot, and yet no land on earth has seen more of horror and bloodshed than this fair land of France. The French are a queer people, and it would take but little to erect the guillotine in any or all of these towns where the people are dancing now so merrily. It was but the other day in Paris that the police were forced to disperse a mob found dancing and singing around a guillotine (from some chamber of horrors), in the Temple Square. How long would it have been before the sound of the Carmagnole would have drawn the bloodhounds from the slums of the city, transforming that mob from monkeys who mocked to tigers which tore. The sight of that instrument to these people is as the smell of blood to a wild beast.

My Japanese boy "Yama" excites the keenest kind of interest and curiosity, and to-day as we were forced to stop a moment in Casteljaloux where a fair was being held, I really felt apprehensive for a moment,—not that they would do anything to him, but as to how long his blank Oriental face could retain its utter lack of expression before changing to one of sudden fury, as I knew the faces of these Japs could do. The people pressed around the automobile and almost fingered him, yet he never for an instant lost his Buddha-like expression, or lack of expression. Let out amongst that crowd he could floor any number, for he is a master in jiu-jitsu.

Last winter in Washington an English valet boasted to him that he could handle him with ease.

"Let's try," said the Jap, and, no sooner attempted than the stalwart Englishman lay sprawling on the far side of the room.

Again, when a burly priest weighing certainly two hundred and fifty pounds insisted upon calling for my cook at the main door of the house, upon my expressing my distaste thereat, the Jap, who weighs I should say one hundred and ten pounds, promptly offered to "put him out" if he came again, and he could probably have done so with great ease, but I declined to allow a priest of the Church to be treated in such a summary manner.

Our stopping place to-night is Marmande, an uninteresting town, with a dirty hotel. There is absolutely nothing to see or to do save to watch the inhabitants and their manners and customs.

How placidly the lives of these people seem to flow in these provincial towns. The café of this hotel—I suppose the Waldorf of the place—is the rendezvous of the wits and beaux of society hereabouts. It is a large room with sanded floor upon which are marble-topped tables ranged against the leather divans which line the walls. Madame presides in stately form over the whole and welcomes her habitués. The old gentleman in shiny black, the young gentleman in queer cut habiliments, the middle-aged gentleman with the pointed beard, all come and engage in a mild game of cards until the dinner hour. Do they dine here? Bless your soul, no; or, if so, in the outer room. "Madame" conducts me through to an inner sanctum where only the elect may break their fast, and here it is better than I had expected, judging from the hotel. This is certainly a spot in France to which not a dozen foreigners come in a year. There is no reason for their doing so unless the night overtakes them. We could have gone farther, but it was evident that Jean was tired. The strain upon a chauffeur must tell in time as it does upon the driver of an express engine. So we stopped over and are very well off. The waiter is surprised that here, where it is made, I let the wine alone.

Jean comes around as usual after his dinner and we arrange our route for the next day. It is an intense satisfaction to travel in this country. The Automobile Club of France has mapped out all the Republic and every cross-road, every hill, or dangerous curve has its iron or stone sign post with names and distances or warning. These together with the excellent charts published by A. Taride, 18 Boulevard Saint Denis, Paris, under the directions of the "Union vélocipédique de France" render it almost impossible to go astray, or to get into trouble, yet in the rush of our auto we have several times gone a few kilos wrong, having passed the posts so quickly that we could not read the names, but that matters not with these cars which move so quickly or in France where it is a pleasure to get lost.

[CHAPTER XII]

RAPID MOTION—BEAUMONT—RACES AND DASHES—CADOUIN AND ITS CLOISTERS—THE ROUTE TO TULLE

April 7th.—We are late in starting from Marmande. Jean has just sped by with the auto, waving his hand in some sort of explanation. However, time is nothing on this trip and when we are en route the world is so beautiful that one soon forgets any irritation which the unavoidable delay has occasioned.

Nature has opened another eye during the night—all the valleys are clothed in that tender green which one associates with France, the fruit trees have suddenly put forth all their beauty and the landscape is radiant with the glory of white and pink blossoms. Almost every hill is crowned with the tower of some ancient windmill, whose arms have vanished long since; old châteaux and churches preside in stately fashion over quaint villages. Jean sings as we roll over the white roads and I ask him why. "Why, Monsieur! but the world is beautiful, it is spring, and I am young and a boy." Surely, Jean, sufficient reason for joy with any breathing mortal and it is well you appreciate that which never comes but once and goes so quickly.

We are moving rapidly, for us, forty miles an hour for four hours. Yama is the time keeper and announces our record from his throne in the rear amongst the baggage. His excitement was most intense when just now we passed in a whirl over a black hen. The feathers flew in all directions, but when last seen the hen had rejoined her friends none the worse for her encounter.

Can the naturalists inform me why all animals on the approach of a train or auto will, if possible, cross the track? For instance, that hen left the safety and seclusion of a neighbouring dung heap and did her best to throw dust in our eyes. One can have no regret for a creature that will deliberately run such risks, but when an old dog is killed doing his duty, while his lazy master sleeps, one's regret is great.

The ancient town of Lauzun with a grand château and church are passed, and shortly thereafter, a tire gives up the ghost and we stop for repairs. We have expected it for some time as it is the one that bothered in starting. However, new ones having reached us at Pau, it is only a matter of a few moments' delay.

En route once more, we leave the meadows and mount to a more sterile region, stopping at Beaumont for luncheon. The inn is certainly not in the habit of receiving many strangers,—it is the dirtiest place we have encountered and I wonder what the meal will be. The table shows the wreck of a former feast which "Madame" with a dirty napkin sweeps onto the floor. But the vegetable soup is hot and good, followed by some sort of game, of which I eat and question not. Then comes a pâté de foie gras made in this section and after that some cold mutton done up with onions and some fried fish, of all of which I eat. Coffee in a big glass with cognac follows and "Madame" even then wants me to partake of some other hot meat which a fat cook brings up smoking. But there is room for no more if I would not go to sleep. I can hear the people in the streets talking about Yama. The fat cook is greatly excited; never having seen a Jap before, she is surprised that he is not a monkey. She thinks she would rather have him little than big,—enough is as good as a feast.

Beaumont is one of those quaint old walled towns long since forgotten of the world. It has its old church and gateway, the latter once taken by the English. Its houses project over the sidewalks like those of Chester, but life has left it long ago, and we pass onward and away.

The ride all the afternoon is a delight, the roads are as fine as ever, and the air is cool and fresh. Our route lies over the hills and at last in a long descent through beautiful valleys.

Much of the last hour or two Jean shuts off all the power and we coast like the wind down the floor-like roads. Many a dog joins in the race and one kept pace with us for some hundreds of yards. I laid ten francs on the dog but there were no takers. Another poor beast met instant death. We were going at a tremendous speed down hill, when he rushed from a doorway straight at the wheels and we passed over him like a flash. I looked back, but he never moved.

Both "Madame" and her cook at Beaumont insisted that we stop at Cadouin and visit an old cloister there, which we promised to do, and on entering the town while its people are basking in the sun of this quiet day of rest we pass the ancient church and are directed by an old dame, who is washing her pans at the town pump, to a door in the rear whereby we enter an ancient kitchen garden, and wandering amongst its cabbages and sweet peas, find three portly priests who greet us smilingly. One conducts us to the ruined cloister, now a mass of broken carvings, tottering pillars and sad looking saints, around and over which nature has thrown a beautiful veil of trailing vines and flowers. Yonder saint is embowered in morning-glories, while red poppies spring from the soil in the centre where the dead sleep on and on.

The whole is charming and one is taken far back into the past and reminded of the present only by the distant puffing of one's automobile. The garrulous old priest tells his story, but the place is too enchanting to listen to details. However, he pays no attention to my distraction; he has his story to tell and will not be gainsaid. Once out again into the garden I press a coin into his palm, which, glancing to see if the other priests have observed my act and will insist upon a division, he quickly pockets, assuring me that it is for the poor only that he accepts. Surely yes, father, for the poor only. I fully understand, but mentally I add that in this case charity begins at home. As we roll away, the smiling fathers stand watching us, six fat hands reposing upon three fat stomachs within which the succulent vegetable growing here but yesterday and the chickens which lately strutted these walks sleep side by side, but the end is peace.

About four this afternoon, our auto stopped for no reason that I could see. Jean insists that he was not sure of the route, but the only other way ran into a church of no interest. However, as we stopped, there came from an open doorway a very pretty woman. I happened to glance at Jean's face and found it flaming red. Off came his cap and he seized the dame by both hands. The confab is not for me; so I do not listen but I do look. Presently Jean says that the lady would be pleased if we would stop and refresh ourselves. He looks sheepish as he puts the question. Really what does he take me for, does he think I am going to delay my journey for an hour or so that he may flirt with what I suspect is an old sweetheart? He tells me that her husband is fatigued and is upstairs, also that he is a client of his. (Just what sort of clients do chauffeurs have?) But I am obdurate and we move on. Then Jean acknowledges that he has known the lady when both were younger,—all of which his face told me half an hour ago. It is very evident that Yama has also sized up the situation, his remarks are to the point.

That Jean was disappointed is proven by the movements of the car, which are jerky and uneven all the afternoon, until we enter ancient Tulle, which, like Carlsbad, is down in a gully with the river flowing through its centre. Tulle is well off the beaten track, and but few autos come this way, though by so doing they would pass over one of the most delightful roads in France. It has not the appearance of a place of importance though full of life and bustle and boasting some twenty thousand inhabitants.

The evening shadows are falling as we enter its streets and all the people are abroad, while the cafés glitter with the life so dear to the French. As we pause a moment in the great square, the stately spire of the cathedral rises before us, backed by the fantastic old houses, piling up tier on tier and all sharply outlined against a lilac sky where the crescent of the new moon gleams faintly. But I am too tired with our rushing ride to examine the town to-night and so seek the quiet of my room at the Hôtel Moderne, and rest until dinner is served, though on the whole I think I should prefer to go to bed than to eat.

[CHAPTER XIII]

THE GREAT COURSE OF BELMONT—DIFFICULT STEERING—THE "CUP GORDON BENNETT"—DOWN THE MOUNTAINS TO CLERMONT-FERRAND