"Qui donc disait qu'il n'y a ni fraicheur ni ombre en Provence! Il semble y avoir là-bas dans le tortueux lointain de la rivière, un infini de rêverie, un paradis melancolique.... Je contemple la noble structure du Pont Géant, ces arcades silencieuses qui semblent dévorer de l'azur."
Paul Mariéton.
CHAPTER XIII
THE PONT DU GARD
Barbara had heard of the approaching arrival of some cherished relations in Provence, and as blood is the thickest of all substances—impenetrable by the X or any other rays—it was arranged that she should meet them at an appointed rendezvous and stay with them till the common fluid that flowed in their veins had been satisfied. Then she was to return to continue our joint adventures.
So one fine day I found myself alone at Tarascon. It is supposed to be necessary to have some idea of what one is going to do with oneself in a place before electing to go there, but this I believe to be a superstition. It is only necessary to present oneself and destiny will do the rest.
Yet I had seen everything of note in Tarascon, and Tartarin was evidently concerned about me, for even he could suggest nothing further. We were discussing possibilities in a desultory manner when one of his professional brothers passed at a rattling pace with a fare evidently just returned from doing Tarascon in the twenty minutes—"sans Beaucaire."
The inmate of the fly was pale and lank, with colourless hair. I gave a start—my critical Englishman of the Pont du Gard! The hat went off, and I caught, as the carriage rolled by, the simple words, "Wretched hole; not a decent——" but the movement of the fly bereft me of the end of the sentence.