This was so probable, although unromantic,
that thereafter the venerable structure was called
by that name, or, as Inness suggested, "not to be
too disrespectful, the mediæval T.G."
Ventimiglia, seven miles from Mentone,
was "one of the most ancient towns in Liguria," the Professor remarked. Mrs. Trescott, Mrs. Clary, and I looked much wiser after this information, but carefully abstained from saying anything to each other of the cloudy nature of our ideas respecting the geographical word. However, we noticed, unaided, that its fortifications were extensive, for we rolled over a drawbridge to enter it, passing high stone-walls, bastions, and port-holes, while on the summit of the hill above us frowned a large Italian fort. The Roya, a broad river which divides the town into two parts, is crossed by a long bridge; and we were over this bridge and some distance beyond before we discovered that we had left the old quarter on the other side, its closely clustering roofs and spires having risen so directly over our heads on the steep side-hill that we had not observed them. Should we go back? The carriages drew up to consider. We had still "a long drive before us;" these "old Riviera villages" were "all alike;" the hill seemed "very steep;" and "we can come here, you know, at any time"—were some of the opinions given. The Professor, who really wished to stop, gallantly yielded. Miss Graves, alone in the opposition, was obliged to yield also; but she was deeply disappointed. The cathedral, formerly dedicated to Jupiter, "'possesses a white marble pulpit incrusted with mosaics, and an octagon font, very ancient,'" she read, mournfully, aloud, from her manuscript note-book. "'The Church of St. Michael, also, guards Roman antiquities of surpassing interest.'" This word "guards" had a fine effect.
But, "we can come here at any time, you know," carried the day; and we drove on. I may as well mention that, as usual in such cases, we never did "come here at any time," save on the one occasion of our departure for Florence—an occasion which no railway traveller going to Italy by this route is likely soon to forget, the Ventimiglia custom-house being modelled patriotically upon the circles of Dante's "Inferno."
When we were at a safe distance—"I suppose you know, Miss Trescott, that Ventimiglia was the principal home of your Lascaris?" said Verney. "First of all, they were Counts of Ventimiglia: that Italian port stands on the site of their old castle. I have been looking into their genealogy a little on your account; and I find that the first count of whom we have authentic record was a son of the King of Italy, A.D. 950. His son married the Princess Eudoxie, daughter of Theodore Lascaris, Emperor of Greece, and assumed the arms and name of his wife's family. Their descendants, besides being Counts of Ventimiglia, became Seigniors of Mentone, Castellare, Gorbio, Peille, Tende, and Briga, Roccabruna, and what is now L'Annunziata. They also had a château at Nice."
"Let us go back!" said Janet.
"To Nice?" I asked, smiling.
But Verney appeased her with an offering—nothing less than a sketch he had made. "The Lascaris," he said, as if introducing them. And there they were, indeed, a group of knights on horseback, dressed in velvet doublets and lace ruffles, with long white plumes, followed by a train of pages and squires with armor and led-horses. All had Greek profiles: in truth, they were but various views of the Apollo Belvedere. This splendid party was crossing the drawbridge of a castle, and, from a latticed casement above, two beautiful and equally Greek ladies, attired in ermine, with long veils and golden crowns, waved their scarfs in token of adieu.
"Charming!" said Janet, much pleased. (And in truth it was, if fanciful, a very pretty sketch.) "But who are those ladies above?"
"I suppose they had wives and sisters, did they not?" said Verney.
"I suppose they did—of some sort," said Janet, disparagingly.