After two days of skirting the Spanish coast the North Cape sighted the Balearic Isles; and two days more took her into the Gulf of Lyons, within a few hours of Marseilles. The last half of her journey in the Mediterranean, however, was not as pleasant as the first; for a heavy wind from the northwest made the air raw and chilly, even in that warm climate, and stirred up a heavy sea.
“It is the Mistral,” the Captain explained. “That is the name they give the cold north wind all along this coast. It comes up very suddenly once every six or eight weeks, and makes the natives shiver. I am just as well satisfied to have it now, for it only lasts a day or two, and we will be pretty sure of fine weather in port.”
As they approached Marseilles, Kit recognized many of the points from what he had read. There was the semicircle of mountains at the rear, forming a vast amphitheatre in which the city lay—desolate, barren-looking mountains of grayish-white rock, with hardly any traces of vegetation. And there was the church on the summit of a high hill rising from the valley, with a great gilded statue of the Virgin Mary on top; he knew that must be Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde, from the descriptions of it, and imagined that the long straight lines running up the side of the hill must be the track of the elevators. Then when they drew nearer he saw the long breakwater, extending a mile or more along the shore, which makes Marseilles one of the best ports in Europe. And to the right lay a group of three rocky islands, some distance apart, one of which he was sure must be the island of the Castle d’If.
“I suppose we run in behind the breakwater, Captain?” he asked. “I see there is quite a forest of masts in there.”
“No,” the Captain answered, “we go into the Old Port—the Vieux Port, as they call it here, vieux being the French word for old. That was the original port, of course, that was the making of Marseilles; and a very curious place it is; a natural basin running right up into the heart of the city, with a narrow entrance. However, you will soon see it all for yourself.”
It was before ten o’clock in the morning that the ship ran between the two old-fashioned forts, one on each side of the narrow entrance, and ploughed her way slowly up the Old Port. It did not look to Kit as if there could possibly be room for another steamer on any of the three sides, so thickly were the vessels crowded in—big steamers and little, sailing-ships, tugs, beautiful yachts, fishing-boats, excursion boats, every sort of craft he could think of. All around, except at the entrance, were broad streets full of people, lined with tall buildings of light stone, many of them looking as if they might have stood since the old Phœnician days. But room was found on the east side for the North Cape, and as soon as she was made fast, both the Captain and Kit went ashore—the former to attend to his custom-house business, and Kit to find his agents.
Within ten minutes they were both back at the ship, each with a disgusted look in his face.
“Well, did you find your agents, Silburn?” the Captain asked. “Just about as much as I got into the Custom House, I suppose. Every business place is shut up tight as a drum. This is some saint’s day or other, and all business is stopped; the only places open are the cafés and tobacco shops. They don’t care very much for Sundays in these Catholic countries, except as a time for bull-fights and the opera; but just give them a saint’s day, and you couldn’t induce one of them to work. This is a wasted day for us, and I don’t like it.”
“Nor I,” Kit answered; “but I suppose we must put up with it. It wouldn’t be so bad if we had some work to do on board.”
“No, there is nothing to do,” the Captain growled. It was not hard to see that he was very much annoyed at the delay. “We might as well go out and see some of the sights, I suppose. How would you like to go up to that church on the hill? or would you rather go out to Castle d’If?”