_LONDON TO SOUTH OF FRANCE._
SELECTING the route to Paris by Folkestone, we left London on the
afternoon of 1st November 1876, and slept at Folkestone. The steamboat
was to sail the following morning at 9.15, and to have proceeded direct
would have involved leaving London at the inconveniently early hour
of 7.10 A.M. The train by Dover and Calais departs fixedly at 7.40
A.M., so that one is not much better off by taking that route. But on
proceeding by Boulogne, there is a chance that the state of the tide
may throw the time of sailing to a later hour; only when this is the
case, it involves arriving at the journey’s end late in the evening.
The train in connection with the boat by which we were to sail, was due
in Paris at 4.40 afternoon—a nice time at which to arrive.
* * * * *
One does not get a chance of observing whether there be any attractions
about Folkestone by just sleeping a night there. It may be a very
Paradise upon earth; and, from its facilities for popping over to
France, to its residents it probably is. One cannot say, but it does
not look like it. Possibly the quarter to which summer visitors resort
may be more inviting than the portion disclosed at the harbour. Anyhow,
it seems a less dreary, out–of–the–world place than Newhaven. But
Britannia rebels a little at her children quitting their native land to
get enamoured with strange countries, and frowns upon their departure;
for these nights before crossing are by no means pleasurable. One is
brought into rather close proximity to the dreaded passage; and if
the wind should howl or be even but moderately fresh, or if the sea,
unwitting of its gigantean power, be only sporting in joyous freedom,
the prospect for the morrow is far from assuring. Then it is a busy,
bustling, uncomfortable scene at the hotel. Piles of luggage strew
the hall. Apprehensive passengers are arriving by successive trains,
and others in a woe–begone condition, and in all sorts and manners of
wraps and disguises, by the boats. They are dining, teaing, suppering
in a confused disagreeable way in the coffee–room. Anxious waiters and
active chamber–maids are hurrying about. Porters meet you in narrow
corners laden with luggage. There is nothing to invite you to remain
in the public room. There is nothing to induce you to venture long
out of doors. People depart early to bed. But the search for petty
utilities by the feeble light of candle, the cramped bedroom, the
cheerless difference from home, produce a feeling of discomfort which,
combined with the early retirement, the noise and tramping about the
corridors, the creaking of ships’ gearing dimly heard, and the thoughts
arising,—which have little in them of the land of promise and more of
the morn,—all keep the pilgrim long restless upon bed; and, after an
unrefreshing night of broken sleep, he is glad to get up betimes for an
early breakfast, call, with twenty others simultaneously, for the bill,
settle it up quick if correct, and, after an impatient waiting for his
goods, which seem never likely to make their appearance, and seeing
that every little thing is brought along, to be off to the steamboat;
for nobody stays, unless in exceptional circumstances, such as pending
a storm, more than a night. After a little, the train arrives, and an
endless procession of unassorted passengers moves slowly on board;
the luggage and merchandise brought by it tediously follow. At last
the gangway is dragged ashore, the vessel is released, and, after the
usual backings and easings and tender movements, it tardily steams
out of harbour, increases its speed, and we sit looking on the land,
the return to which may be in the far future; and, thinking much of
dear friends from whom we have parted, we gradually, as the distance
widens, lose sight of Old England, and passing here and there a gallant
ship, with its snowy sails catching, fortunately for us, but a gentle
balmy breeze, we near the other—once hostile, now friendly—shore, and
landing find ourselves among a foreign race, and gazing upon foreign
habitations, and soon encountering foreign customs and institutions.
* * * * *
We made the mistake of registering our luggage at London when we left
London, instead of taking it on with us to Folkestone and registering
it there for Paris. The consequence was that, on arrival of the train
at Paris, we were compelled to wait nearly an hour at the station,
which was cold, dark, and drafty, until all the luggage which had come
by the train by which we had arrived had been arranged, examined by
the _douaniers_, and delivered to their owners. We disconsolately saw
our luggage standing within a barred enclosure, but the men would on
no account touch it till then, and no doubt where thieves abound some
precaution of this kind is needful.
We had repeatedly visited Paris before, but in one respect it was new
to us—to see it in its wintry aspect. On former occasions, we had
visited it in the sunshine of summer. But how changed did it look
now! The trees were yellow with the tints of autumn, and were nearly
stripped of their foliage. The air was cold and frosty, and Paris
looked bleak and miserable. We spent one or two days in it; and one of
the places to which we paid a visit was beyond the range of ordinary
sight–seeing. The daughters of some Edinburgh friends were at a large
boarding–school in Paris, in the Faubourg d’Auteuil. We drove there
to see them, and after some search discovered the establishment, the
name of which, ‘Une Institution des Demoiselles,’ was painted up in
letters a yard high. It had quite a conventual aspect. The house was
entered through a narrow little door, hinged on a panel of a large
one (just like what one sees in the large door of a prison), which,
upon ringing the bell, was opened by a pull from the opposite side of
the court–yard, around which the buildings of the school were placed.
Crossing to the dwelling–house, we were shown into a parlour, where
our young friends shortly came to us. They were all habited in black,
with a red leather belt, being the uniform compulsory on all the pupils
while in school. They informed us there were 150 boarders, of whom only
17 were English. Having introduced us to one of the governesses, this
lady very kindly showed us all over the place. Ranges of large rooms
were occupied as bedrooms, containing a separate bed for each of the
young ladies—all kept in the highest order, and in white, spotless
purity. Separate adjoining rooms were fitted up as lavatories. Other
rooms were schoolrooms; others, dining–rooms, or _salles à manger_,
where the young people were then at lunch or early dinner, and
evidently enjoying a hearty meal. A separate building was kept as an
infirmary for the sick—a very prudent arrangement, where so many young
persons were brought together. For those who were in good health, there
was a large garden and playground attached to the house.
* * * * *
On Monday, 6th November, having taken Gaze’s tickets from London to
Nice, we left Paris by the Lyons Railway, registering our heavy luggage
for Cannes; and we were free to travel to any station on the line to
Cannes, at which our tickets permitted us to stop, only taking with us
what we would require for a week by the way. Some people prefer making
the journey from Paris to Cannes, Nice, or Mentone without break,
and say there is less fatigue in doing so; but it is a long journey,
occupying from Paris to Mentone—journeying by the express leaving at
11.20 A.M.—twenty–eight hours, arriving at Mentone at 3.24 next day.
For invalids in a feeble condition, it is in some respects preferable.
It is only one fatigue to be overcome, and it avoids the risk of
exposure to damp or rain. In cold, winter weather at Paris, the one
journey is certainly preferable, and at the end of it people arrive in
what is by contrast a genial summer. So proceeding, passengers have,
besides other shorter stoppages, an interval of half an hour at Dijon,
at 5.45 P.M., to dine; 25 minutes at Lyons, at 10.18 P.M.; and the
following morning, at 6.30 A.M., 1 hour 25 minutes at Marseilles to
wash and breakfast.
* * * * *
We desired to take the journey leisurely, and to see a little by
the way. After the usual difficulty on French railways of getting
accommodation in the train, we proceeded as far as Dijon. There is
little to interest one by the route. Fontainebleau, at which the
express trains do not stop, is passed soon after leaving Paris, but
is nearly two miles from the station. Its palace with its gardens is
really the only thing worth seeing, but to see them involves spending a
day at the town. If not pushed for time, they are, however, well worthy
of a visit. We stopped a night on our way home to see them. The palace
is extensive, consisting of four distinct but united chateaux, erected
at different times, with splendid suites of rooms full of historical
interest. The forest, which covers 25,000 acres, is disappointing. The
charges at the hotel to which we went, were as high as those of any in
Paris.
* * * * *
We rested the first night at Dijon, a convenient halting–place. The
Hotel du Jura is near to the railway station, and is most comfortable.
The landlord of it is attentive, and his charges moderate. Dijon was
the former residence of the Dukes of Burgundy, and is a curious old
place, well worthy of a visit for a day or two days. People often break
their journey at Dijon merely to sleep there, but, arriving at night
and departing next morning, do not always visit the town. A forenoon
may be very profitably spent in walking about its promenades and its
streets, with houses adorned by quaint carvings and architecture, and
seeing its large, massively–built churches, particularly St. Michael
and St. Benigne, and its interesting old public buildings. On the card
of the hotel there is a little plan of the town, in which the Place
Grande is shown about its centre. Here there is a large edifice which
was formerly the palace of the Dukes of Burgundy, now the Hotel de
Ville, one part of which has been converted into a museum and picture
gallery, the most interesting portion being the old banqueting hall of
the dukes, with its colossal chimney–piece and its monuments, carrying
one away back to the times of boisterous mirth and probably lawless
deeds.
Dijon stands high, and the weather being cold on our journey south, we
were glad of fires. We considered we had made a mistake in travelling
so late in the season. Had we started about the middle of October, it
would have been better. The fact is, the larger part of the people
going for health to the Riviera make the grievous mistake of delaying
their departure till winter has commenced. Many, indeed, do not come
to the Riviera till the month of January, in order to enjoy the
gratification—dearly purchased, in some cases—of a Christmas at home.
By doing so, they are obliged to travel through France during a season
when the weather is often piercingly chill, while they are exposed in
crossing the Channel to the risk of encountering winter storms.
* * * * *
We proceeded next day to Lyons, passing through a rich wine country,
in the midst of which Macon lies, where, at the station, on high
days and holidays, the women may be seen wearing a witch–like hat of
peculiar build. The cycle of fashion will no doubt in due course make
the whole world acquainted with it, till which time the world may wait
and wonder. It may require some fortitude to don this sweet marvel of
a bonnet for the first time. But what observation will not the ladies
brave to follow their leader in fashion!
* * * * *
At Lyons it was keenly cold. There is not much to be seen at the
ancient city, situated on the banks of the Rhone and Saone, which
effect their junction just below it. The railway journey from Dijon
occupies five or six hours, according to the trains. We arrived in the
dark, and drove to the Hotel Collet, one of the best in the place. It
is situated in the main street, which may be said to be the only good
street of shops, formerly called the Rue Napoleon, and now since the
Republic, which changes even the names of streets, the Rue Nationale.
On entering the large hall, round which were distributed palm trees and
other tropical plants in tubs and pots, we had the first suggestion of
approaching a southern clime.
Lyons is populous without being lively, and stately without being
imposing. We took a close carriage next morning, and drove about for
nearly four hours to see what could be seen—almost the whole of which
time was occupied in visiting the junction of the rivers and ascending
Fourvières, a steep hill on the right bank of the Saone, from which
an extensive panoramic view is in clear weather obtained, and Mont
Blanc, about 130 miles distant, is sometimes seen—its visibility being
a circumstance symptomatic of approaching wet weather, as we found
did happen on a subsequent occasion, when the white mountain was
seen as we were nearing Lyons from Geneva. Lyons at this season was
looking very dreary, and the cold necessitated our burning fires in
the bedrooms. On a former visit, in summer, the heat had been almost
unendurable. In the evening of the second day, we found the large
central hall of the hotel—which was lighted from the roof, and afforded
access by encircling corridors and concealed stairs to the different
floors—was covered in by an awning, and the _salle à manger_ was laid
for a magnificent dinner. It turned out that the principal rooms were
engaged for a wedding party (_noces_), the ordinary guests being
conducted to other rooms. It was, however, a very quiet, solemn–looking
affair; although the number assembled was large, they made no noisy
demonstrations. At breakfast–time next morning the waiters seemed but
half aroused.
* * * * *
We left Lyons by train at 11 o’clock forenoon. Our through tickets
required to be _vise’d_ at the booking–office before they would admit
us to the _salle–d’attente_. The route from Lyons southward is very
interesting. The railway skirts the Rhone nearly the whole way. The
river has been said to vary in width from a quarter of a mile to two
miles, although from the railway it does not appear to be so wide. In
the sunshine everything looked beautiful. The farther south we got,
the foliage became fresher, and it was very charming to see the river
rolling softly on, fringed by trees, and through valleys, from which
rise the vine–clad hills. We passed the Côtes d’Or, and other regions,
where the famous Burgundy wines are grown. Some of the mountain ranges
are lofty. We thought how much more beautiful would the river appear
during summer months, and our wish as regards time was actually
fulfilled the following September; but, alas! it was then obscured by
clouds and rain.
* * * * *
The railway to Marseilles passes several interesting places, and among
others, the towns of Orange, Avignon, and Arles, which all contain
relics of Roman occupation. On occasion of our going south in September
1877, we stopped at Avignon, which is 230 kilometres, or about 140
miles, from Lyons,[16] the train taking about six hours. When one can
manage it, Avignon is a place well worth stopping to see. Leaving the
station, we drove through some narrow dirty streets till we reached the
Hotel de l’Europe, the situation of which is not at first inviting; but
it is considered the best hotel, and our rooms were very comfortable.
It was kept by a young landlady, who spoke English, and was very
attentive. On the following morning we took a cab to drive about and
see the town, and, _inter alia_, saw the Calvi Museum, which contains
many paintings, some of which are good, and a large collection of coins
and books. Then we went to the cathedral, which is well worth a visit.
Here are the tombs of several popes. The construction of the gallery of
the church is peculiar. I desired to have a photograph of the interior
at a shop, but they had it not. Photographs, however, were sold outside
the cathedral, and possibly I might have procured it there; but we had
so often found photographs sold at the show places themselves so dear,
that I had not asked for them at the cathedral door. It does, however,
sometimes happen, as probably it did here, that they can only be had at
the place itself; and when time is limited, it is better to secure what
may be wanted, especially interiors, at once. The pope’s old palace
adjoins the cathedral. This is a large building with very massive
walls 100 feet high. It is now occupied as a caserne or barrack for
French soldiers. The lofty rooms, for greater accommodation, have had a
floor interposed. The rooms, fitted up with beds and filled with the
soldiery, are in a very different condition from what they must at one
time have been when this was the papal residence. One of the rooms into
which we were shown, was the upper interposed half of what had formerly
been the chamber of torture of the Inquisition. There was nothing very
special now to be seen in this dismal unoccupied apartment, which at
one time echoed with the groans and cries of the tortured.
In the Place de l’Hotel de Ville, in the centre of the town, are a
handsome–looking theatre and other public buildings; but one of the
most interesting objects in Avignon is the old Roman bridge across
the river. Avignon was a fortified city, and is still surrounded by
walls having many gates, and in our drive we passed outside the walls
till we reached the Roman bridge. Only part of it is now standing, the
remainder having, I presume, been swept away by floods. The river is
now crossed by a good modern bridge, not far from the site of the old
one, and conducts to a town upon the other bank of the river which
forms a suburb to Avignon.
* * * * *
We did not, in November 1876, stop at Avignon; but being then desirous
of seeing the old Roman city of Nismes, we procured through the guard,
when stopping at the station of Valence, supplementary tickets enabling
us to change at Tarascon, which we reached in the dusk about five
o’clock. Here we had to change carriages, and cross the platform,
and enter a dingy station or _salle–d’attente_, and to wait wearily
for nearly an hour till the train proceeded to Nismes. It was cold,
and we had, as usual, no assistance from porters with our _petits
bagages_. Nismes is about an hour’s journey by rail from Tarascon.
The mistral was blowing, and it was bitterly cold. The coldness of
this wind is, I believe, greatly produced by the cutting down of the
trees on the mountains in the south of France; and if so, the sooner
they are replanted the better. It is piercingly felt all over the
south of France, even Mentone, at its extreme east point, not being
wholly sheltered from its influence. I fancy that in the Roman times,
when such places as Nismes, Avignon, and Arles were selected for
habitation, the mistral was not felt, at least to the extent it is now.
It prevented our invalid from leaving the house while at Nismes on this
occasion.
* * * * *
Nismes, as a capital city of a department of France, is a town
of importance. It is the seat of the departmental courts, and it
possesses various educational establishments as well as a variety of
manufactures. It is beautifully situated in a fertile district. The
town itself is attractive. The principal streets are wide and clean,
and the Boulevards are pleasant; but it is as an ancient city, full of
vestiges of old Roman occupation, that it possesses charms to attract
the stranger.
The most famous of these Roman remains is the Arena, and attention is
naturally drawn to it from being situated fronting a large open space
in the heart of the town, called the Esplanade. It was the first of the
Roman amphitheatres we had at that time seen. Exposed to the mistral,
it was then intensely cold; and one could hardly suppose that it would
have been built on that site if it had not been at the time a place to
which the people could go without fear of colds (for, odd though it
may sound, I fancy the grand old Roman nose did suffer occasionally
from colds). However, an arena seems to have been then as necessary
an appendage to a Roman town as a church is to an English village.
The building is oval in shape, and is 412 feet long by 306 feet in
breadth, and rises in upwards of 30 massive tiers from the centre to
the circumference, resting on strong stone arches, and containing
perfect means of ingress and egress—every separate external arch having
been, no doubt, a separate vomitory. The building is computed to have
accommodated 32,000 persons. The arena, though in part ruinous, is
still in a very fair state of preservation, but is undergoing a process
of restoration by the insertion of new stones in place of the old ones,
to strengthen the structure, which, as the old stone is grey with age
and the new stone is a beautiful pearly white, looks most incongruous.
One could almost wish that the building were let alone, although it is
to be hoped that in the course of years the new stone will assume a
colour in keeping with the rest. Perhaps it might be stained to bring
it into harmony. Of this same kind of stone, two beautiful churches
have recently been built: one of them, St. Perpetué, is completed and
in use; the other, a very large one,—I presume to be occupied as a
cathedral, with a double spire far in advance when we saw it first,—was
in the following year not yet finished. The designs of these churches,
particularly in their spires, are remarkably graceful. There is another
very elegant modern building adjoining the Arena, the Courts of
Justice, which also fronts the Esplanade, in the centre of which open
space has been erected a very handsome modern marble fountain at a cost
of £10,000.
Leaving the Arena and passing up the Boulevard St. Antoine, we arrive
at the _Maison Carrée_, or the Square House—a small but beautiful
temple, with a peristyle of the Corinthian order, in admirable
preservation. It is situated in a space enclosed by railings, and is
occupied as a museum and picture gallery, for which it affords but
limited room. From the Maison Carrée the visitor proceeds through
public gardens to the Roman Baths, which are in wonderful condition,
although the marble statues have nearly all lost their noses, the
common fate of all marble statues long exposed to the weather. These
baths are very elegant enclosures of water, now looking very stagnant
and green. Upon the west side are the ruins of what has been termed a
temple of Diana, in which are preserved many of the antiquities found
in the vicinity of it. To the south issues, through an elegant iron
rail and gateway, a very long wide avenue or boulevard called _Cours
Neuf_, on a straight line, flanked by trees which, when completed,
will extend, I think, a full mile in length. The north extremity is
terminated by a hill, reached by magnificent stairs, and commanding a
fine view of the Baths or fountains, of the long wide avenue beyond and
the surrounding country. This hill is surmounted by the _Tour Magne_,
the ruin of a building the object of which has not been definitely
ascertained.
Nismes in summer in fine weather is very hot, but is a charming
residence for a few days. We stayed two nights on this occasion at
the Hotel Luxembourg, which is recommended to English travellers. The
men–servants here, who are also the _femmes–de–chambres_, had quite an
Italian look and cut, and were in their morning attire very comically
dressed in a short jacket, somewhat like those schoolboys used to wear.
* * * * *
We returned _en route_ for Marseilles by Tarascon, passing by the
way several stone quarries and fields in which olive trees had been
planted by way of experiment. These were the first olive trees we had
seen. They were young and short, and were disappointing, as in fact
are all olive trees, however large or old they be, to those who, like
ourselves, having read of sitting under the olive tree as a species of
luxurious enjoyment, found them very different from our expectations,
being in leaf like the willow. But their existence indicated approach
to a warmer climate.
* * * * *
The old Roman town of Arles lies between Tarascon and Marseilles, and
is said to be, though I doubt it, as much worth seeing as Nismes; but,
owing to the difficulty of finding trains to fit in to meet our time,
we have not in passing visited it.
* * * * *
It rained heavily all the way from Tarascon to Marseilles, when it
fortunately cleared up. Part of the way is flanked by what appears to
be barren desert land, possibly occasioned by the ground being high and
level, so that it is not watered by rivers.
* * * * *
At Marseilles, we found the _commissionaire_ of the Hotel du Louvre et
de la Paix, to which we had written for rooms, waiting. Owing to some
odd arrangement then prevailing, all carriages were kept out of sight
till the luggage was sorted, so that we were fortunate to get him to
send for one. The hotel we found to be a large many–storeyed one, but
it had a lift. There is another large hotel at Marseilles, to which we
went on the next occasion. It is hard to say which is the better. The
Noailles has a large and beautiful _salle à manger_, and a good–sized
drawing–room. Both are expensive. We found at Marseilles, as at Dijon,
Lyons, Avignon, Nismes, and afterwards at Hyères, that the charge for
_table–d’hôte_ dinner included _vin ordinaire_. We had an agreeable
surprise at dinner in meeting two families—old friends—from Bristol.
* * * * *
Marseilles is seldom visited, except as a place of halt for further
travel. After staying one or two nights, those arriving depart either
landward by railway or seaward by steamboat to other parts. But it
is well worth at least one day’s visit to see it thoroughly. It is a
very ancient city, being upwards of 2500 years old, and the population
is above 300,000. In contrast to Lyons, it has all the appearance of
a busy place. The principal streets are always crowded, the port is
the largest in the Mediterranean, and may be considered the Liverpool
of France, though the docks are not so extensive. On occasion of our
first visit, the weather was cold and wet, and we had only a Sunday
there, so that we did not see much; but when we paid it a second visit
in October 1877, we had a little more time, and drove round the town
and docks. The ancient port is a large natural harbour filled with
good–sized vessels, while additional docks of large extent stretch
away to the westward. Outside them, a breakwater has been built, which
extends about two miles in length. Bædeker says that, on an average,
nearly 20,000 vessels, of an aggregate burden of 2,000,000 tons, enter
and quit Marseilles annually. Our driver pointed out as we passed, in
one of the docks (the Basin de la Joillette), a P. & O. steamer; and
it would have been interesting to have visited it, but we were afraid
we should not have had time. A large cathedral was being built facing
the docks, and will be a very prominent object to those arriving at
Marseilles by sea. Another very prominent and striking object, and from
which a fine view of the town, harbour, and district is to be had, is
an eminence to the south–east, crowned by the Church of Notre Dame
de la Garde. Leaving the docks, we proceeded round the town to the
Palais de Longchamps, which stands on a height. It is a large, elegant
columnar structure, with spacious staircases leading up to and through
it to the gardens beyond. The palace contains two museums. A fine view
is obtained from the top.
Marseilles is a busy commercial and manufacturing place. The central
streets are always bustling—teeming with life. An interesting part of
it is the flower market, where the women are to be seen perched up
on tables or platforms tying up their pretty bouquets of flowers and
selling them to purchasers. The heights to the north of the town are
bare, but, together with the islands which stud the sea outside the
harbour, give picturesqueness to the view. But although it stands as
far south as Mentone and San Remo, or rather farther south, it wants
the shelter of the health resorts on the Riviera, and suffers severely
from exposure to the mistral.
* * * * *
On leaving Marseilles for Cannes, we had not gone far by railway before
we obtained a complete change of temperature. It was like passing from
winter into summer, and from dreary stony mountain ranges to verdant
slopes covered with mature olive trees, and with orange and lemon
trees—all indicative of a warmer climate. We did not on this first
occasion stop at any place between Marseilles and Cannes, but on the
following year visited Hyères, and it will therefore be adverted to in
the sequel.
* * * * *
On this first occasion, we left by an early train on the Monday morning
with our friends. We had much difficulty in getting seat–room, with
no assistance from guards. The carriages were filled with people who
had travelled all night from Paris. In the compartment which fell
to our lot, the remainder of the seats were all filled by French
gentlemen who were or had been smoking, and were begrimed with dust,
and looked like very ogres. The morning was splendid, the sun, pouring
out his beams in rich effulgence, gave gladness to the bright scene,
which we especially felt after the cold weather to which we had, ever
since our arrival in France, been exposed. After leaving Toulon, the
railway goes inland and does not again touch the coast till it reaches
Frejus, 91 kilometres, or above 50 miles on; but the country is very
beautiful. This route, between Marseilles and Genoa, and on to Pisa,
passes through constantly–occurring tunnels. It is said that between
Marseilles and Genoa alone there are no less than 200, and it certainly
looks like it. The train is for ever rushing into and darting out
of tunnels; and as French people never think of closing windows in
tunnels, and always put and keep down the glass, the transit through
them is very cold and trying, particularly to invalids or to those who
may be afflicted with a cold in the head. After leaving Frejus, the
railway skirts the coast, and as the train emerges from a tunnel, the
passengers have the opportunity of seeing the most lovely bays formed
by the jutting promontories and the blue Mediterranean. In saying they
have the opportunity, however, this is a chance depending upon whether
there are no foreigners at the windows. If there be, most mercilessly,
and without leave asked, much less obtained, down go the blue blinds
on both sides of the carriage. Fortunately, on this first occasion (I
was not so lucky on the second), I got seated near the south or sea
window, and managed to get one of the three curtains kept up; but just
as we approached within sight of Cannes, where the view was becoming
exquisitely beautiful, a little of the bright sun darted in: the
intruder was expelled in double haste, and the blind most uncourteously
and ruthlessly pulled down. It saved some sunburnt ogre from being, if
possible, a little more browned or reddened, and it signified not that
his fellow–passengers were deprived of an enjoyment into which he could
not enter.