all my life before going abroad i had been filled with a curiosity as to the character of the riviera and monte carlo. i had never quite understood that nice, cannes, mentone, san remo in italy and monte carlo were all in the same vicinity—a stone’s throw apart, as it were; and that this world is as distinct from the spirit of the north of france as the south of england is from the north of england.

as barfleur explained it, we went due south from paris to marseilles and then east along the coast of the mediterranean until we came to the first stopping-place he had selected, agay, where we would spend a few days in peace and quiet, far from the hurry and flare of the café life we had just left, and then journey on the hour or two more which it takes to reach monte carlo. he made this arrangement in order that we might have the journey through france by day, and proceed from agay of a morning, which would give us, if we had luck—and such luck usually prevails on the riviera—a sunlight view of the mediterranean breaking in rich blue waves against a coast that is yellow and brown and gold and green by turns.

coming south from paris i had the same sensation of wonder that i had traveling from calais to paris—a wonder as to where the forty odd millions of the population of france kept itself. it was not visible from the windows of the flying train. all the way we traveled through an almost treeless country past little white lawns and vineyards; and i never realized256 before, although i must have known, that these same vineyards were composed of separate vines, set in rows like corn stalks and standing up for all the world like a gnarled t. every now and then a simple, straight-running, silvery stream would appear, making its way through a perfectly level lane and set on either bank with tall single lines of feathery poplars. the french landscape painters have used these over and over; and they illustrate exactly the still, lonely character of the country. to me, outside of paris, france has an atmosphere of silence and loneliness; although, considering the character of the french people i do not understand how that can be.

on the way south there was much badinage between barfleur and sir scorp, who accompanied us, as to the character of this adventure. a certain young friend of barfleur’s daughter was then resident at lyons; and it was barfleur’s humorously expressed hope, that his daughter’s friend would bring him a basket of cold chicken, cake, fruit, and wine. it seems that he had urged berenice to write her friend that he was passing through; and i was hourly amused at scorp’s biting reference to barfleur’s “parental ruse,” which he vindictively hoped would come to nothing. it was as he hoped; for at lyons the young lady and her parents appeared, but no basket. there were some minutes of animated conversation on the platform; and then we were off again at high speed through the same flat land, until we reached a lovely mountain range in the south of france—a region of huts and heavy ox-wains. it reminded me somewhat of the mountain regions of northern kentucky. at marseilles there was a long wait in the dark. a large number of passengers left the train here; and then we rode on for an hour or two more, arriving by moonlight at agay, or at least the nearest railway station to it.

257

the character of the world in which agay was located was delicious. after the raw and cold of our last few days in paris this satin atmosphere of moonlight and perfume was wonderful. we stepped out of a train at the little beach station of this summer coast to find the trees in full leaf and great palms extending their wide fronds into the warm air. there was much chatter in french while the cabby struggled to get all our numerous bags into one vehicle; but when it was all accomplished and the top lowered so that we could see the night, we set forth along a long white road between houses which had anything but a french aspect, being a showy development of things spanish and moorish, and past bright whitewashed walls of stone, over which wide-leaved palms leaned. it was wonderful to see the moonlight on the water, the bluish black waves breaking in white ripples on sandy shores, and to feel the wind of the south. i could not believe that a ten-hour ride from paris would make so great a change; but so it was. we clattered up finally to the grand hôtel d’agay; and although it possessed so fine a name it was nothing much more than a country inn—comparatively new and solidly built, with a charming vine-covered balcony overlooking the sea, and a garden of palms in which one might walk. however, the food, barfleur assured us, would be passable. it was only three stories high and quite primitive in its appointments. we were lighted to our rooms with candles, but the rooms were large and cool, and the windows, i discovered by throwing mine open, commanded a magnificent view of the bay. i stood by my window transfixed by the beauty of the night. not in france outside this coast—nor in england—can you see anything like this in summer. the air was like a caress. under the white moon you could see the main outlines of the coast and258 the white strip of sand at the bottom. below us, anchored near the garden, were some boats, and to the right white houses sheltered in trees and commanding the wonders of the water. i went to bed breathing a sigh of relief and feeling as if i should sleep soundly—which i did.

the next morning revealed a world if anything more wonderful. now all the whiteness and the brownness and the sharpness of the coast line were picked out by a brilliant sun. the bay glittered in the light, a rich indigo blue; and a fisherman putting forth to sea hoisted a golden sail. i was astonished to find now that the houses instead of being the drab and white of northern france were as like to be blue or yellow or green—and always there was a touch of color somewhere, blue window-sills ornamenting a white house, brown chimneys contrasting with a blue one, the charm of the moorish arch and the moorish lattice suggesting itself at different points—and always palms. i dressed and went below and out upon the balcony and through the garden to the water’s edge, sitting in the warm sun and tossing pebbles into the water. flowers were in bloom here—blue and yellow blossoms—and when barfleur came down we took a delightful morning walk up a green valley which led inland between hills. no northern day in june could have rivaled in perfection the wonder of this day; and we talked of the stagey make-believe of parisian night-life as contrasted with this, and the wonder of spring generally.

“i should think the whole world would want to live here in winter,” i said.

“the fact is,” replied barfleur, “what are called the best people do not come here so much nowadays.”

“where do they go?” i asked.

“oh, switzerland is now the thing in winter—the259 alps and all that relates to them. the new rich have overdone this, and it is becoming a little banal.”

“they cannot alter the wonder of the climate,” i replied.

we had a table put on the balcony at eleven and ate our morning fish and rolls and salad there. i can see sir scorp cheerfully trifling with the cat we found there, the morning sun and scenery having put him in a gay mood, calling, “chat, chat, chat!” and asking, “how do you talk to a cat in french?” there was an open carriage which came for us at one into which we threw our fur coats and blankets; and then climbed by degrees mile after mile up an exquisite slope by the side of a valley that gradually became a cañon; and at the bottom of which tinkled and gurgled a mountain stream. this road led to more great trees at the top of a range overlooking what i thought at first was a great valley where a fog prevailed, but which a few steps further was revealed as the wondrous sea—white sails, a distant pavilion protruding like a fluted marble toy into the blue water, and here and there a pedestrian far below. we made our way to a delightful inn some half way down and back, where under soaring black pine trees we had tea at a little green table—strawberry jam, new bread, and cakes. i shall never forget the bitter assault i unthinkingly provoked by dipping my spoon into the jelly jar. all the vials of social wrath were poured upon my troubled head. “it serves him right,” insisted barfleur, treacherously. “i saw him do that once before. these people from the middle west, what can you expect?”

that night a grand row developed at dinner between scorp and barfleur as to how long we were to remain in agay and whether we were to stop in or out of monte carlo. barfleur’s plan was for remaining at least three260 days here, and then going to a hotel not directly in monte carlo but half way between monte carlo and mentone—the hôtel bella riva. i knew that barfleur had come here at the present time largely to entertain me; and since i would rather have had his presence than the atmosphere of the best hotel in monte carlo, it really did not matter so much to me where we went, so long as it was comfortable. scorp was greatly incensed, or pretended to be, to think i should be brought here to witness the wonders of this festive world, and then be pocketed in some side spot where half the delicious life would escape me. “agay!” he kept commenting, “agay! we come all the way to the south of france to stop at agay! candles to light us to bed and french peasants for servants. and then we’ll go to monte carlo and stop at some third-rate hotel! well, you can go to the bella riva if you choose; i am going to the palace hotel where i can see something, and have a decent bed. i am not going to be packed off any ten miles out of monte carlo, and be compelled to use a street car that stops at twelve o’clock and spend thirty francs getting home in a carriage!”

this kept up until bedtime with barfleur offering solemn explanations of why he had come here, why it would be advisable for us to refresh ourselves at the fountain of simple scenery after the fogs of london and the theatric flare of paris. he had a fine argument for the bella riva as a dwelling-site: it was just half way between monte carlo and mentone, it commanded all the bay on which monte carlo stood. cap martin, with the hotel of that name, here threw its sharp rocky point far out into the sea. a car-line passed the door. in a half-hour either way we could be in either mentone or monte carlo.

“who wants to be in mentone?” demanded sir scorp.261 “i would rather be an hour away from it instead of half an hour. if i came to see monte carlo i would not be bothering about mentone. i, for one, will not go.”

it was not long before i learned that scorp did much protesting but equally much following. the patient silence of barfleur coupled with direct action at the decisive moment usually won. scorp’s arguments did result in one thing. the next morning, instead of idling in the sun and taking a carriage ride over the adjacent range, we gathered all our belongings and deposited them at the near-by station, while barfleur and i climbed to the top of an adjacent hill where was an old water-pool, to have a last look at the lovely, high-colored, florescent bay of agay. then the long train, with drawing-room cars from all parts of europe rolled in; and we were off again.

barfleur called my attention as we went along to the first of the umbrella trees—of which i was to see so many later in italy—coming into view in the occasional sheltered valleys which we were passing, and later those marvels of southern france and all italy, the hill cities, towering like great cathedrals high in the air. i shall never forget the impression the first sight of one of these made on me. in america we have nothing save the illusion of clouds over distant landscapes to compare with it. i was astonished, transported—the reality was so much more wonderful than the drawings of which i had seen so many. outside the car windows the sweeping fronds of the palms seemed almost to brush the train, hanging over white enclosures of stone. green shutters and green lattices; red roofs and bright blue jardinières; the half-italianized frenchman with his swarthy face and burning eyes. presently the train stopped at cannes. i struck out to walk in the pretty garden which i saw was connected with the depot, barfleur262 to send a telegram, scorp to show how fussy and cantankerous he could be. here were long trains that had come from st. petersburg via vilna and vienna; and others from munich, berlin and copenhagen with diners labeled “speisewagen” and sleepers “schlafwagen.” those from paris, calais, brussels, cherbourg bore the imposing legend, “compagnie internationale des wagons-lits et des grands express européens.” there was a long black train rumbling in from the south with cars marked tripoli, roma, firenze and milano. you had a sense, from merely looking at the stations, that the idleness and the luxury of all the world was pouring in here at will.

in ten minutes we were off again—barfleur expatiating solemnly on the fact that in england a homely girl was left to her own devices with no one to make anything of her, she being plain and that being the end of it; while here in france something was done with the poorest specimens.

“now those two young ladies,” he said, waving his hand dramatically in the direction of two departing travelers,—“they are not much—but look at them. see how smartly they are gotten up. somebody will marry them. they have been encouraged to buck up,—to believe that there is always hope.” and he adjusted his monocle cheerfully.

our train was pulling into the station at monte carlo. i had the usual vague idea of a much-talked-of but never-seen place.

“i can hear the boys calling ‘ascenseur,’” exclaimed barfleur to scorp prophetically, when we were still a little way out. he was as keen for the adventure as a child—much more so than i was. i could see how he set store by the pleasure-providing details of the life here; and scorp, for all his lofty superiority, was263 equally keen. they indicated to me the great masses of baggage which occupied the platforms—all bright and new and mostly of good leather. i was interested to see the crowds of people—for there was a train departing in another direction—and to hear the cries of “ascenseur” as predicted—the elevators lifting to the terrace in front of the casino, where the tracks enter along a shelf of a declivity considerably above the level of the sea. it is a tight little place—all that i had expected in point of showiness—gay rococo houses, white and cream, with red roofs climbing up the sides of the bare brown hill which rises to la turbie above. we did not stop, but went on to mentone where we were to lunch. it was charming to see striped awnings—pink and white and blue and green—gay sunshades of various colors and ladies in fresh linens and silks and men in white flannels and an atmosphere of outing generally. i think a sort of summer madness seizes on people under such circumstances and dull care is thrown to the winds, and you plan gay adventures and dream dreams and take yourself to be a singularly important person. and to think that this atmosphere should always be here, and that it can always be reached out of the snows of russia and the bitter storms of new york and the dreary gray fogs of london, and the biting winds of berlin and paris!

we lunched at the admiralty—one of those restaurants celebrés where the haute cuisine of france was to be found in its perfection, where balconies of flowers commanded the côte d’azure.