"A little against the rules," said the Chef smiling; "but life is full of inevitable exceptions, and because we stick to too much red tape, and will not recognise the need of exceptions, half life's worries occur."
Evidently our Chef was a philosopher, and fortunately a man of common-sense.
Presently up came the porter. His search had been successful. The luggage was re-registered for Portbou, and we had the satisfaction of thanking M. le Chef for sparing us an awkward dilemma. "Monsieur," he replied, with a finished French bow, "it is a pleasure to be of use, and I am always at your disposition."
The train left the station and crossed the lordly Garonne. Nothing in the way of river could look more majestic, with all the light of the sky and all the blue of the heavens reflected on its broad surface. Once more we were dazzled by the rich splendour of the autumn tints, glories of colour. In the vineyards the deep purple leaves still lingered upon the branches. White farmhouses, with their green shutters, red-tiled roofs, strings of yellow Indian maize, heaps of pumpkins and cantaloupe melons, stood out in striking contrast with the landscape. Many a vine-laden porch threw its lights and shades upon walls and pavement. Many a field was picturesque with ploughing-oxen. A hardy son of the South guided the furrow, and a woman with red or blue handkerchief tied round the head, followed, sowing the seed. One only wanted twilight and the angelus bell to complete the scene's devotion.
All this we had found a year ago. Nothing was altered—it seemed as yesterday. But now we were changing our direction, and going east instead of westward. Last year Irun and St. Sebastian; now Gerona and Barcelona the bright and pleasant, for ever associated with Majorca the beautiful and beloved.
CHAPTER II.
A NARBONNE HOSTESS.
Carcassonne—In feudal times—Simon de Montfort—Canal du Midi—L'Âge d'or et le Grand Monarque—A modern Golden Fleece—One of earth's fair scenes—Choice of evils—M. le Chef yields—Narbonne—A woman of parts—The course of true love runs smooth—Diner de contrat—Honey versus the lune de miel—Madame's philosophy—L'Allée des Soupirs—An unfinished cathedral—At the gloaming hour—Mystery and devotion—The Hôtel de Ville—A domestic drama—High festival and champagne—The next morning—H. C. repentant—Madame at her post—Ambrosial breakfast—"Il faut payer pour ses plaisirs"—Dramatic exit—Perpignan—Home of the kings of Majorca—Elne—"Adieu, ma chère France!"—Over the frontier—Gerona—Crowded platform—What H. C. thought—Unpoetical incident—From the sublime to the ridiculous.
THE hours went on and the sun declined, and we looked upon the wonderful old city of Carcassonne.
Rising out of the plain the great limestone rock was crowned by this fortress of the Middle Ages, its walls and round towers clearly outlined against the blue sky. These enclose a dead world given up to the poor and struggling. Its steep, narrow streets have no longer the faintest echo of military glories. The inner walls date back to the Visigothic kings; the foundations of some of the towers are Roman, but nothing of the outer walls seems later than the twelfth century. Here in 1210 the army of crusaders under Simon de Montfort laid siege, the cruel Abbot of Citeaux most determined of the enemy. The massacre at Béziers had just taken place, de Montfort foremost in eagerness to shed blood. Some had escaped to this little City of Refuge, amongst them the brave Vicomte de Béziers: one of those men of whom the world has seen not a few, saving lives at the cost of their own. The little fortress unable to hold out was taken, and again the massacre was terrible, Béziers himself dying in prison after great suffering.
A hundred and fifty years later it more successfully resisted the Black Prince, who, after scattering terror right and left in the plains of Languedoc, found that he had to retire from these walls baffled and mortified. To-day they still stand, the most perfect mediæval monument in France.