Nicholas. The bridge is a romantic relic of the gay life of Avignon when the city was the refuge of the popes. Daudet, in his _Lettres de mon Moulin_, tells us that the streets were too narrow for the _farandole_, so the people would place the pipes and tambourine on the bridge and there, in the fresh wind of the Rhone, they would dance and sing.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The ruined bridge of St. Benezet at Avignon_ _Page 92_

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]

"Sur le pont d'Avignon, l'on y danse, 'on y danse; Sur le pont d'Avignon, l'on y danse tous en rond."

The distance to Nimes was so short that we decided to motor there for lunch, see the vast Roman amphitheater and the world-famous Maison Carree, and then push on to Montpellier, where we planned to spend the night and perhaps remain for a day or so.

The ride was more memorable for the oppressive heat than for any particular charm of scenery. It was noon when we crossed the river and looked back for a last view of the huge Palais des Papes. The sun blazed upon the white road, which quivered like white heat. There were few trees. The engine hood was so hot that we could not touch it. It would not have surprised us if one tire, or all of them, had burst; they probably would have done so if we had gone much farther. The glare was so intense that we entirely overlooked the little _octroi_ station on the edge of the town. We, however, were not overlooked. Some one was shouting and waving a hundred yards behind us. It was not inspiring to back slowly through our own dust to convey the valuable information that we carried nothing dutiable. Of course, at a time like this, the engine refused to start. After vigorously "cranking" for a quarter of an hour, and suffering all the sensations of sunstroke, we moved on to the Hotel du Luxembourg for _dejeuner_.

Among our recollections of the lunch at this hotel were the ripe, purple figs. There is no reason why we should confess how quickly this delicious fruit disappeared. Farther north, in Berlin, such figs would have been a luxury, and might have appeared for sale at a fancy price in some store window. In Nimes they were served as a regular part of the lunch. We could almost have traced our trip southward by the fruits that were served us from time to time.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Maison Carree at Nimes_ _Page 95_

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]

The broad boulevards and shady avenues of Nimes form a small part of the attractions of this prosperous city. There are fine theaters and cafes, especially the cafes with tables and chairs extending into the streets to accommodate the crowds of thirsty patrons. It was pleasant to be a part of this typically French environment, to watch this group or that, with their gestures, shrugging of shoulders, laughter, and rapid conversation. Many phases of French life pa.s.s before so advantageous an observation point.

But Nimes is not simply a modern city. Nowhere else in France, not even in Orange, does one get a clearer idea of what the splendor of Roman civilization must have been. _Provincia_ was a favorite and favored province of the empire; Nimes was the center of provincial life. For five centuries the different emperors took turns in enriching and embellishing it. We visited the Maison Carree, most perfect of existing Roman temples, inspected the gateway called the Porte d'Auguste, looked up at the Tour Magne, a Roman tower, saw the remains of the Roman baths, and then made our way to the amphitheater, smaller than the Colosseum but so wonderfully preserved that you simply lose track of the centuries. The great stones, fitting so evenly without cement, have that same rich, golden brown color, the prevailing color tone of Provence. We entered the amphitheater through one of many arcades, the same arcades through which so many generations of toga-clad Romans had pa.s.sed to applaud the gladiatorial combats. Now the people go there to see the bull fights which are held three or four times a year. On that particular afternoon a large platform had been erected for the orchestra in the middle of the arena. Open-air concerts are very popular in Nimes during the summer.

It was something of a shock to pa.s.s from these scenes of Roman life by a jump into a motor car--the amphitheater ill.u.s.trating the grandeur of Rome's once imperial sway, the motor car symbolizing the spirit of our rushing modern age. The contrast was startling.

CHAPTER VI

NiMES TO CARCa.s.sONNE

There was abundance of time to arrive in Montpellier before dark, so we let the speedometer waver between thirty and thirty-five kilometers. The road was hardly a model of smoothness. We were not always enthusiastic about the roads in the Midi. On the whole, they were not much more than average, and not so good as we had expected to find them after that first experience on the Route Nationale to Chambery. Where there was a bad place in the road we usually saw a pile of loose stones waiting to be used for repair, but many of these piles looked as though they had been waiting a long time. The roads are apparently allowed to go too long before receiving attention. Owing to the increasing amount of heavy traffic, the deterioration in recent years has been more rapid than formerly. In some of the provinces, like Touraine, there were short stretches of roadway in urgent need of repair. With conditions as they now are, the money voted by the government is insufficient to keep up the standard of former years. England now expends more than twice as much per mile as France, but while the French roads are in danger of losing to England the supremacy they have so long enjoyed, we cannot state too clearly that, taken as a whole, they are still the finest on the Continent. It is probable that the present signs of decadence are only temporary. The government is fully alive to the needs of the hour.

In all probability the movement headed by President Poincare more fully to open up the provinces to motor-tourist travel will have a good effect upon road conditions.

It would be hard to find a small French city which makes such a pleasant first impression as Montpellier; there is such an atmosphere of culture.

One does not need to be told that this is a university town. Munic.i.p.al affairs seem to be well regulated; the _hotel de ville_ would do credit to a much larger city. We discovered an open-air restaurant located upon an attractive _place_. The _garcon_, after receiving a preliminary _pourboire_, served us so well that we returned there the next day.

Everybody who visits Montpellier will remember the Promenade de Peyrou which rises above the town. The scenic display is great. Only a few miles away, and in clear view, tosses the restless Mediterranean. The prospect made us realize how far south we had come since the starting of our tour from Berlin. Another interesting bit of sight-seeing in the neighborhood is the Jardin des Plantes, a remarkable botanical garden which was founded as far back as 1593 by Henry IV, and is said to be the oldest in France.

Whatever the indictment against French roads in the Midi, the stretch from Montpellier to Carca.s.sonne was above reproach. Much of the way it was the French highway at its best. Wide-spreading trees arched our route. We would have been speeding every foot of the distance if the beautiful scenery had not acted as a constant brake. For a little way we ran close to the sea. The fresh salt breeze fanned our faces. It was a rare glimpse of the Mediterranean. This enchanting scene lasted but a moment, for the road swerved into the great vineyards of the Midi, an Arcadian land of peace and plenty, the home of a wine industry celebrated since Roman times. As far as the eye could reach, nothing but these green waves that billowed and rolled away from either side of the road. There was a touch of fall in the air, a glint of purple amid the green. Ripening suns and tender rains had done their work. The road led through Beziers, bustling center of preparations for the harvest. On several occasions we pa.s.sed a wagon loaded with wine casks so large that three horses with difficulty drew it. The capacity of those huge casks must have been thousands of gallons.

At Beziers we could have taken the direct route to Toulouse, but then we would have missed seeing Carca.s.sonne, the most unique architectural curiosity in France and perhaps in the whole world. Our roundabout course brought us to Capestang, a scattered peasant village inhabited by laborers in the vineyards. The luxuries and even the ordinary conveniences seemed far away from these homes. The shutters consisted of nothing but a couple of boards bolted or nailed together and clumsily working on a hinge. It was a region of flies; certainly they had invaded the little inn where we lunched. A heavy green matting tried ineffectually to take the place of a screen door, and let in thousands of unbidden guests. Under these circ.u.mstances our lunch was a hasty one.

As the noontide heat was too great to permit a start, we gladly accepted the invitation of our _hotesse_ to see the church. The cool interior induced us to prolong our acquaintance with the sacred relics and to admire with our guide a statue of St. Peter whose halo had become somewhat dimmed by the dust of centuries.

The afternoon's ride to Carca.s.sonne was in the face of a strong wind. It was our first experience with the mistral, a curious and disagreeable phenomenon of Provence. There was no let-up to the storms of dust it swept over us. There were no clouds; simply this incessant wind that hurled its invisible forces against the car, at times with such violence that we were almost standing still. A heavy rainstorm would have been preferable; at least we would not then have been so blinded by the dust.

Occasionally the shelter of the high hills gave a brief respite from the choking gusts.

All at once we forgot about the wind. In full view from the road was a hill crowned by the towers and ramparts of a mediaeval city, a marvelous maze of battlements, frowning and formidable as if the enemy were expected any moment. We rode on to _la ville ba.s.se_, the other and more modern Carca.s.sonne, a little checkerboard of a city with streets running at right angles and so different from the usual intricate streets of mediaeval origin. Securing rooms at the Grand Hotel St. Bernard, we hastened back, lest in the meantime an apparition so mirage-like should have disappeared. The first view of this silent, fortified city makes one believe that the imagination has played tricks. There is something fairy-like and unreal in the vision. It seems impossible that so majestic a spectacle could have survived the ages in a form so perfect and complete.

Carca.s.sonne had always been one of our travel dreams. From somewhere back in high-school days came the memory of a French poem about an old soldier, a veteran of the Napoleonic wars, who longed to see _la cite_.

One day he started on his pilgrimage, but he was sick and feeble. His weakness increased, and death overtook him while the journey was still unfinished. He never saw Carca.s.sonne. Since that time we had wondered what kind of place it was that had made such an impression upon the French writers, and induced the French government to make of it a _monument historique_.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood

_The castle and double line of fortifications at Carca.s.sonne_ _Page 103_]

At that moment, as we climbed the hill, the past seemed more real than the present. We looked for armored knights upon the wall, and listened for the rattle of weapons, the sharp challenge of the sentry. Crossing the drawbridge over the deep moat, we were conducted by the _gardien_ along the walls and through the fighting-towers, great ma.s.ses of masonry that had known so often the horrors of attack and siege. In this double belt of fortifications there were sentinel stations and secret tunnels by which the city was provisioned in time of war. Here, was a wall that the Romans had built; there, a tower constructed by the Visigoths; and all so well preserved, as if there were no such thing as the touch of time or the flight of centuries. Other places, like Avignon, show the military architecture of the Middle Ages, but it is the work of a single epoch. The defenses of Carca.s.sonne show all the systems of military architecture from Roman times to the fourteenth century. Nowhere in the world can be found such a perfect picture of the military defenses of the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries. The walls and the huge round towers tell their own thrilling tales of Roman occupation, of Visigothic triumph, and of conquering Saracen. Then we could understand why the old French soldier longed to see Carca.s.sonne, and why tourists from all over the world include the city in their itinerary of places that must be visited.

From our lofty observation point on the ramparts there was visible a great range of country, the slender windings of the river Aude, the foothills of the Pyrenees, and the vague summits of the Cevennes. We followed a silent gra.s.s-grown street to the church of St. Nazaire. It was beautiful to see the windows of rare Gothic gla.s.s in the full glow of the setting sun. Such burning reds, such brilliant blues and purples!

"_C'est magnifique comme c'est beau._" A French family was standing near us. Before leaving the church, we looked back. They were still under the spell of that glory of color.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood

_The walled city of Carca.s.sonne_]

There may have been an elevator in the Grand Hotel St. Bernard, but we were not successful in locating it. In a general way, this modest hostelry was of the same type which one finds in most of the small French cities like Valence and Avignon. We were of course greatly interested in gathering and comparing impressions of provincial hotel life. This was particularly interesting in a country like France, where the provinces with their rural and small-town life represent to such a marked degree the nation as a whole. It is always an instructive experience to discover how other countries live, and to compare their standard of living with our own. The hotel life of any country, if we keep away from fashionable tourist centers, usually gives an illuminating insight into the customs of that people. We had often noticed that the French are indifferent to matters relating to domestic architecture. So long as the kitchen performs its functions well, so long as the quality of the cuisine is above criticism, it does not matter if the rooms are small and gloomy or if the architect forgets to put a bathroom in the house. The Frenchman likes to dine well. The cafe ministers to his social life. But with these important questions settled to his satisfaction, he is not inclined to be too exacting about his domestic environment.

If we keep in mind these general observations, it will be easier for us to understand the defects and advantages of the French provincial hotel.

Most of the hotels where we pa.s.sed the night would not begin to compare, in many ways, with the hotels to be found in American towns of the same size. We noticed a characteristic lack of progressiveness in so many respects. It was exceptional to find running hot and cold water. The corridors were narrow and gloomy, the electric light poor for reading.

If there was an elevator, it usually failed to work. Bathing facilities were on the same primitive scale. The attractions of the writing room were conspicuous for their absence. In France it is usually the writing room that suffers most; either it is a gloomy, stuffy chamber, more fitted to be a closet than a place for correspondence, or else located with no idea of privacy, and in full view of everyone coming in and going out. There were no cheerful lounging or smoking rooms. Had it been winter, the heating facilities would probably have left much to be desired, and we might often have repeated our experience at the Hotel Touvard in Romans. It was January, and very cold. Arriving early in the afternoon, we found that our rooms had absorbed a large part of the frigidity of out-of-doors. Complaints were fruitless. We were informed that it was not the custom of the hotel management to heat the rooms before seven o'clock in the evening.

In our selection of hotels we followed the advice contained in the excellent _Michelin Guide_, which has a convenient way of placing two little gables opposite the names of hotels above the average. While they were not pretentious, the quality of service was surprisingly good.

We could always get hot water when we wanted it. The _maitre de l'hotel_ was always on the alert to render our stay as comfortable as possible, and to give us any information to facilitate sight-seeing. Most of the hotels had electric lights, such as they were; the bedrooms were clean and comfortable, the cuisine faultless. If it be true that one pays as high as two francs for a bath, that is because bathing among the French is more of the nature of a ceremony than a habit. As for the small and neglected writing room, we must remember that in France the cafe usurps that function of the American hotel. This is a national custom. How the Frenchman lives in his cafe! Here he comes before lunch for his _aperitif_, to discuss business or politics, to write letters, to read the newspapers and play games, to enjoy his _ta.s.se de cafe_ after lunch, and in summer to while away the drowsy hours of the early afternoon while listening to open-air music.

It was pleasant to meet in Carca.s.sonne two American students from Joliet, Illinois, who were making a long European tour on "Indian" motor cycles. One of them had received not less than six punctures the preceding day and was awaiting in Carca.s.sonne the arrival of another tire. He was beginning to be a little doubtful about the perfect joys of motor cycling on the French roads. Neither of them spoke French, but their resourceful American gestures had up to that point extricated them from situations both humorous and annoying.

CHAPTER VII

CARCa.s.sONNE TO TARBES

Our ride toward Toulouse led us steadily into southwestern France and nearer the Pyrenees. From time to time the landscape, with its fields of fodder corn, was peculiarly American. The illusion never lasted long; a chateau appeared on a distant hill, or a sixteenth-century church by the roadside, and we were once more in Europe, with its ancient architecture and historical a.s.sociation, with its infinite change of scenery and life.

Our trip never grew monotonous. There was always the element of the unexpected. For instance, in the village of Villefranche we rode into the midst of a local _fete_. Banners overhung the road; flags were flying from the windows; ruddy-cheeked girls in gay peasant dress were practicing in the dusty street a rustic two-step or _farandole_ in preparation for the harvest dance.

While entering Toulouse we narrowly escaped disaster. It was not late, but our depleted funds made it necessary to reach a bank before closing time. Suddenly a bicycle rider shot out from a cross street. There was a "whish" as we grazed his rear wheel. The infinitesimal fraction of an inch means a good deal sometimes.

We were too late; the banks were closed. The next day was a business holiday, and the following day was Sunday. Our letter-of-credit would not help us before Monday. But as luck would have it, we were able to discover and fall back upon a few good American express checks. Our hotel, the Tiviolier, gave us a poor rate of exchange, but almost any exchange would have looked good at that poverty-stricken moment.

Toulouse, the flourishing and lively capital of Languedoc, is a city of brick still awaiting its Augustus to make of it a city of marble. The old museum must have been a splendid monastery. We dined in three different restaurants, and fared sumptuously in them all. The _ca.s.soulet_ of Toulouse was so good that we tried to order it in other towns. The experiences of the day very fittingly included a trolley ride along the banks of the famous Ca.n.a.l du Midi, and a visit to the remarkable church of St. Sernin, considered the finest Romanesque monument in France.

It would have been difficult not to make an early start the next morning, the air was so keenly exhilarating. The usually turbid Garonne revealed limpid depths and blue skies as we crossed the bridge. The road dipped into a valley and then, ascending, spread before us imposing mountain ranges. The Pyrenees were in sight; every mile brought them nearer. The name was magical. It suggested landscapes colorful and lovely, strange types of peasant dress, songs that had been sung the same way for centuries, exquisite villages that had never been awakened by the locomotive's whistle. Range retreated behind range into mysterious cloud realms. The road was like a _boulevard Parisien_ under the black bars of shadow cast by the poplar trees.

At St. Gaudens, where we stopped before the Hotel Ferriere for lunch, an American party was just arriving from the opposite direction. There were three middle-aged ladies and a French chauffeur who did not appear to understand much English. The question of what they should order for lunch was evidently not settled. One of them wished to order _potage St.

Germain_. Another thought it would be better to have something else for a change, since they had partaken of _potage St. Germain_ the preceding day. The remaining member of the party was sure it would be nicer if they saved time by all ordering the same thing, but did not suggest what that should be. The chauffeur, who looked hungry and cross, merely contributed a long-suffering silence to the conversation.