The character of the world in which Agay was located was delicious. After the raw and cold of our last few days in Paris this satin atmosphere of moonlight and perfume was wonderful. We stepped out of a train at the little beach station of this summer coast to find the trees in full leaf and great palms extending their wide fronds into the warm air. There was much chatter in French while the cabby struggled to get all our numerous bags into one vehicle; but when it was all accomplished and the top lowered so that we could see the night, we set forth along a long white road between houses which had anything but a French aspect, being a showy development of things Spanish and Moorish, and past bright whitewashed walls of stone, over which wide-leaved palms leaned. It was wonderful to see the moonlight on the water, the bluish black waves breaking in white ripples on sandy shores, and to feel the wind of the South. I could not believe that a ten-hour ride from Paris would make so great a change; but so it was. We clattered up finally to the Grand Hôtel d’Agay; and although it possessed so fine a name it was nothing much more than a country inn—comparatively new and solidly built, with a charming vine-covered balcony overlooking the sea, and a garden of palms in which one might walk. However, the food, Barfleur assured us, would be passable. It was only three stories high and quite primitive in its appointments. We were lighted to our rooms with candles, but the rooms were large and cool, and the windows, I discovered by throwing mine open, commanded a magnificent view of the bay. I stood by my window transfixed by the beauty of the night. Not in France outside this coast—nor in England—can you see anything like this in summer. The air was like a caress. Under the white moon you could see the main outlines of the coast and the white strip of sand at the bottom. Below us, anchored near the garden, were some boats, and to the right white houses sheltered in trees and commanding the wonders of the water. I went to bed breathing a sigh of relief and feeling as if I should sleep soundly—which I did.
The next morning revealed a world if anything more wonderful. Now all the whiteness and the brownness and the sharpness of the coast line were picked out by a brilliant sun. The bay glittered in the light, a rich indigo blue; and a fisherman putting forth to sea hoisted a golden sail. I was astonished to find now that the houses instead of being the drab and white of northern France were as like to be blue or yellow or green—and always there was a touch of color somewhere, blue window-sills ornamenting a white house, brown chimneys contrasting with a blue one, the charm of the Moorish arch and the Moorish lattice suggesting itself at different points—and always palms. I dressed and went below and out upon the balcony and through the garden to the water’s edge, sitting in the warm sun and tossing pebbles into the water. Flowers were in bloom here—blue and yellow blossoms—and when Barfleur came down we took a delightful morning walk up a green valley which led inland between hills. No northern day in June could have rivaled in perfection the wonder of this day; and we talked of the stagey make-believe of Parisian night-life as contrasted with this, and the wonder of spring generally.
“I should think the whole world would want to live here in winter,” I said.
“The fact is,” replied Barfleur, “what are called the best people do not come here so much nowadays.”
“Where do they go?” I asked.
“Oh, Switzerland is now the thing in winter—the Alps and all that relates to them. The new rich have overdone this, and it is becoming a little banal.”
“They cannot alter the wonder of the climate,” I replied.
We had a table put on the balcony at eleven and ate our morning fish and rolls and salad there. I can see Sir Scorp cheerfully trifling with the cat we found there, the morning sun and scenery having put him in a gay mood, calling, “Chat, chat, chat!” and asking, “How do you talk to a cat in French?” There was an open carriage which came for us at one into which we threw our fur coats and blankets; and then climbed by degrees mile after mile up an exquisite slope by the side of a valley that gradually became a cañon; and at the bottom of which tinkled and gurgled a mountain stream. This road led to more great trees at the top of a range overlooking what I thought at first was a great valley where a fog prevailed, but which a few steps further was revealed as the wondrous sea—white sails, a distant pavilion protruding like a fluted marble toy into the blue water, and here and there a pedestrian far below. We made our way to a delightful inn some half way down and back, where under soaring black pine trees we had tea at a little green table—strawberry jam, new bread, and cakes. I shall never forget the bitter assault I unthinkingly provoked by dipping my spoon into the jelly jar. All the vials of social wrath were poured upon my troubled head. “It serves him right,” insisted Barfleur, treacherously. “I saw him do that once before. These people from the Middle West, what can you expect?”
That night a grand row developed at dinner between Scorp and Barfleur as to how long we were to remain in Agay and whether we were to stop in or out of Monte Carlo. Barfleur’s plan was for remaining at least three days here, and then going to a hotel not directly in Monte Carlo but half way between Monte Carlo and Mentone—the Hôtel Bella Riva. I knew that Barfleur had come here at the present time largely to entertain me; and since I would rather have had his presence than the atmosphere of the best hotel in Monte Carlo, it really did not matter so much to me where we went, so long as it was comfortable. Scorp was greatly incensed, or pretended to be, to think I should be brought here to witness the wonders of this festive world, and then be pocketed in some side spot where half the delicious life would escape me. “Agay!” he kept commenting, “Agay! We come all the way to the south of France to stop at Agay! Candles to light us to bed and French peasants for servants. And then we’ll go to Monte Carlo and stop at some third-rate hotel! Well, you can go to the Bella Riva if you choose; I am going to the Palace Hotel where I can see something, and have a decent bed. I am not going to be packed off any ten miles out of Monte Carlo, and be compelled to use a street car that stops at twelve o’clock and spend thirty francs getting home in a carriage!”
This kept up until bedtime with Barfleur offering solemn explanations of why he had come here, why it would be advisable for us to refresh ourselves at the fountain of simple scenery after the fogs of London and the theatric flare of Paris. He had a fine argument for the Bella Riva as a dwelling-site: it was just half way between Monte Carlo and Mentone, it commanded all the bay on which Monte Carlo stood. Cap Martin, with the hotel of that name, here threw its sharp rocky point far out into the sea. A car-line passed the door. In a half-hour either way we could be in either Mentone or Monte Carlo.