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

CHAPTER I. Page Monte Carlo 1 CHAPTER II. Our Departure from Nice—The Road to Aix—The City of King René 8 CHAPTER III. The Road to Arles—The Camargue—Ruins of Arles—The "Aliscamps" 17 CHAPTER IV. The Route to Tarascon—Castle of King René—Beaucaire—Nîmes—Montpellier—An Accident—Narbonne, Ancient and Modern 22 CHAPTER V. The Approach to Carcassonne—Its Picturesqueness—Its Restoration and History 29 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 36 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 43 CHAPTER VIII. Pau and the Life there—Delightful Roads—Ancient Orthez—Madame and her Hotel—The Château of Bidache and its History 49 CHAPTER IX. The Route to Biarritz—Biarritz—The Hôtel du Palais 58 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 62 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 69 CHAPTER XII. Rapid Motion—Beaumont—Races and Dashes—Cadouin and its

Cloisters—The Route to Tulle 76 CHAPTER XIII. The Great Course of Belmont—Difficult Steering—The "Cup Gordon Bennett"—The Mountains to Clermont-Ferrand 82 CHAPTER XIV. Climbing a Mountain in an Auto—The Château of Tournoël—Its History—Descent of the Mountain 86 CHAPTER XV. Ancient Town of Riom—The Route to Vichy—Château de Bourbon-Busset—Vichy—The Life there—Danger of Speeding—Arrival at Bourges 95 CHAPTER XVI. Ancient Bourges—Its Cathedral—House of Jacques Cœur—Louis XI. and the Hôtel Lallement—The Hôtel Cujas—The Ride to Meillant—Its Superb Château—Its Legend 102 CHAPTER XVII. Departures from Bourges—The Château of Mehun—The Death of Charles VII—The Valleys of Touraine—Roads by the Loire—Entrance to Tours 113 CHAPTER XVIII. Ride to Loches—An Accident—The Castle of Loches—Its History—The Cages of Louis XI.—Their Cost to the King—Agnes Sorel—The Mistresses of French Kings versus their Queens 116 CHAPTER XIX. Automobiles in Tours—Departure from the City—The Road to Chinon—Romance and History of Chinon—The Abbey of Fontevrault—Richard Cœur de Lion and his Tomb—The Dead King Henry II 130 CHAPTER XX. The Road to Angers—Cathedral and Tomb of King René—Castle of Black Angers—Cradle of the Plantagenets—History—To Chateaubriant in a Storm—A French Inn—Rennes and the Trial of Dreyfus—The Roads in Brittany—Arrival at St.-Malo—The Ride to Mont St.-Michel—Inn of the Poulard Âiné—The Cathedral and Castle—Their History 138 CHAPTER XXI. Arrival at Caen—William the Norman and Charlotte Corday—Church of St. Étienne—People and Railroads of Normandy—Rouen and its Churches—The Maid of Orleans, History or Legend?—Castle of Philippe Le Bel—Departure from Rouen 149 CHAPTER XXII. The Race through Picardy—Amiens Cathedral—Its Vastness—The Road to Boulogne 161 CHAPTER XXIII. The Ride to Beauvais—Dead Dogs—Great Churches—Beauvais by Night—Vast Wealth of the Churches of France—Wonderful Tapestries 166 CHAPTER XXIV. The Route to Saint-Germain-en-Laye—The People—The Castle and Terrace—Their Picturesque History—First View of Paris 174 CHAPTER XXV. Paris and her so-called Republican Government—Necessity for an Automobile—The Ride to Chartres—Cathedral Notre Dame—The Aqueduct at Maintenon and its Burden of Sorrow—The Castle of Maintenon—Madame and Louis XIV.—St. Cyr and her Death—Return to Paris 180 CHAPTER XXVI. My Chauffeur Summoned by the Government—The New Man—Yama's Opinion of Paris—Speed of Autos in Paris 194 CHAPTER XXVII. Departure from Paris—The Cemetery of the Picpus—Ride through the Forest of Fontainebleau to Sens—The Cathedral—Tomb of the Dauphins—The Great Route to Geneva—Stoned by Boys—Tonnerre 198 CHAPTER XXVIII. Dijon—The French and Fresh Water—The Antiquities of Dijon—Ride through the Côte d'Or—Arrival at Besançon 208 CHAPTER XXIX. The Fortress of Besançon—Autos in Heavy Rains—Dreams—Belfort—Entrance into the Vosges—The Rise to Ballon d'Alsace—Superb Ride to Gérardmer 215

href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@45790@[email protected]#CHAPTER_XXX" class="c5 pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">CHAPTER XXX. Gérardmer and the Mountains—A Wedding—French Courtship—Excursion to St. Dié—Over the Col de la Schlucht—German Custom House—"Always a German"—Colmar—Rhine Valley—Arrival at Freiburg 222 CHAPTER XXXI. Freiburg—Fantastic City—The Youths of Germany—Music and Legends of the Old Town—Cathedral by Moonlight 227 CHAPTER XXXII. From Freiburg to Baden-Baden—Through the Woods to Gernsbach—Superb Roads—People of the Black Forest—Crossing the Danube—Customs Regulations as to Autos—An Old Swiss Mansion—The Ride to Geneva and Aix-les-Bains 232

---

ILLUSTRATIONS

  Page Tomb of Agnes Sorel at Loches
By permission of Mansell & Co. Frontispiece. Interior of the Casino at Monte Carlo
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 2 Cloisters of the Cathedral at Aix
From a photograph 12 Cloisters of the Cathedral at Aix
From a photograph 14 The Portal of the Cathedral of Saint Trophimus, Arles
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 16 Exterior of the Amphitheatre at Arles
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 18 The Aliscamps at Arles
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 20 General View of the Château of King René at Tarascon
From a photograph 24 The Fortifications at the Old Town of Carcassonne
From a photograph 30 The Grotto at Lourdes
By permission of Messrs. Lévy 46 The Bridge over the Gave at Orthez
By permission of Messrs. Lévy 52 Château of Bidache
From a photograph 54 Maison de l'Infante at Saint-Jean-de-Luz
From a photograph 64 Interior of the Church of Saint John at Saint-Jean-de-Luz
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 66 The Home of Madame de Sévigné at Vichy
By permission of Jules Hautecœur 96 Rue de l'Établissement at Vichy
From a print 100 The South Portal of the Cathedral at Bourges
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 102 The Palace of Jacques Cœur at Bourges
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 104 Hôtel Lallement at Bourges
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 106

Château of Mehun near Bourges
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 108 The Château at Meillant
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 110 The Grand Salon of the Château of Meillant
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 112 The Château of Loches
From a photograph 116 The Entrance to the Château of Loches
From a photograph 118 The Cage in which Jean de la Balue was Imprisoned for Eleven Years 122 Louis XI
From the engraving by Hoopwood 126 General View of Chinon
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 132 Pavilion de l'Horloge at Chinon
From a photograph 134 The Court of the Cloisters, Abbey of Fontevrault
By permission of J. Kuhn 136 Tombs of Richard I. and Eleonore of Guinne at Fontevrault
From a photograph 138 The Statue of King René and the Château at Angers
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 142 Mont Saint-Michel, from the South
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 144 The Cloisters of the Abbey of Mont Saint-Michel
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 146 The Crypt de l'Aquilon in the Abbey of Mont Saint-Michel
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 148 La Trinité, Abbey of Women, at Caen
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 150 The Abbey of Men at Caen
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 152 Charlotte Corday
After the painting by Raffet 154 Monument of Cardinal d'Amboise in Rouen Cathedral
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 156 The Tomb of Louis de Brézé in the Cathedral of Rouen
From a photograph 158 The Cathedral at Rouen
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 160 A House of the 15th Century at Rouen
From a photograph 162 The Great Clock of Rouen
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 164 The Tower of Jeanne d'Arc at Rouen
From an old

print 168 The Cathedral at Amiens
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 170 The Grand Portal of the Cathedral of Beauvais
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 172 Old Houses on the Rue de la Manufacture, Beauvais
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 174 The Terrace at Saint-Germain
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 176 The Château of Saint-Germain, from the North
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 180 The North Portal of the Cathedral at Chartres
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 182 The South Portal of the Cathedral at Chartres
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 184 The Cathedral at Chartres
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 186 Stone Carvings Surrounding the Choir of the Cathedral at Chartres
From a photograph 188 The Vierge du Pilier in the Cathedral of Chartres
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 190 The Viaduct of Maintenon, near Chartres
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 192 The Château of Maintenon, from the North
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 196 The Tomb of Lafayette in the Picpus Cemetery, Paris
From a photograph 200 The Cemetery of the Picpus. Lafayette's Tomb on the Right, Tablet to André Chénier on the Left
From a photograph by the author 202 The Cathedral at Sens
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 204 The Tomb of Jean Sans Peur at Dijon
From a photograph 210 The Well of Moses in the Abbey of Chartreux at Dijon
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 212 The Tower of State, Palace of the Dukes of Bourgogne, at Dijon
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 216 La Schlucht. The Tunnel on the Road to Münster
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein 224 The Cathedral of Freiburg, Baden
By permission of F. Firth & Co. 228 A Corner in the Black Forest
From a photograph 236 The Manor House at Wülflingen, near Winterthur
From a photograph 238 Interior of the Manor House at Wülflingen, near Winterthur
From an old

woodcut 240

---

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.

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

class="x-ebookmaker-pageno" title="[6]"/> 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.