GLORIES OF SPAIN

GLORIES OF SPAIN

BY
CHARLES W. WOOD, F.R.G.S.,
AUTHOR OF
"LETTERS FROM MAJORCA," "IN THE VALLEY OF THE RHONE,"
ETC., ETC.

WITH EIGHTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS.

London
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1901

LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

GLORIES OF SPAIN.

CHAPTER I.
AT THE GARE D'ORLÉANS.

On Calais quay—At the Custom-house—A lady of the past—Ungallant examiner—Better to reign than serve—Paris—Vanity Fair—Sowing and reaping—Laughing through life—At the Hôtel Chatham—A pleasant picture—In maiden meditation—M. Pascal is wise in his generation—The secrets of the Seine—Notre Dame—Ile St. Louis—A mediæval atmosphere—Victor Hugo—Ghosts of the Hôtel Lambert—H. C. again—His little comedy—M. the Inspector—Outraged ladies—"En voiture, messieurs!"—Mystery not cleared—The Orléanais—La Vendée—Garden of France—A dilemma—Polite Chef de Gare—Crossing the Garonne—Land of corn and wine.

THE Channel waters were calm and placid as the blue sky above them. Though late autumn the temperature was that of mid-summer. At Calais every one landed as jauntily as though they had just gone through the pleasure of a short yachting trip. As usual there were all sorts and conditions of men and women, and again the curious, the grotesque, the impossible predominated. They streamed across the new quay in a disordered procession, struggling with all that amount of hand-baggage which gets into everyone's way but their own, as they hurry forward to secure for themselves the best seats and most comfortable corners.

The Custom-house was over. One ancient lady who stood near us was politely demanded by the examiner if she had cigars, tobacco or brandy to declare. Her flaxen wig seemed to stand on end as she asked if they mistook her for a New Woman: Quaker-like answering one question with another. The examiner received her query au pied de la lettre, and earnestly looked at the lady, who, in spite of flaxen wig, rouge, pencilled brows, was of the Past. All his intelligence in his eyes, he replied: "About the same age as the century, I should say, madame;" then marked her packages and turned to the next in waiting. Had those two found themselves alone together, judging from the lady's expression there would have been terrible paragraphs in the next day's papers. As it was she entered one of the waiting trains and we saw her no more. Evidently she had been a beauty in her day, and it is hard to serve where one has reigned.

So we steamed on to the gay capital, in her day almost to the modern world what Rome was to the ancient. And if not altogether that now, who has she to thank but herself? Nations like people must reap as they sow. Yet, whirling through the broad thoroughfares, we felt she still holds her own. Nowhere such floods of light, turning night into day, making one blink like owls in the sunshine. Nowhere shops so resplendent that a Jew's ransom would not purchase them. Nowhere such a Vanity Fair crowded with a light-hearted people, who dance through the world to the tune of Away with Melancholy! Passing from the Gare du Nord, the brilliant boulevards were full of life and movement.

Our coachman turned into the Rue Daunou and brought up at the Hôtel Chatham: quiet, comfortable, but like all Parisian hotels terribly in want of air. The manager received us with as much attention as though we had arrived for six months instead of a couple of hours, in order to fortify ourselves for the night journey southwards.

The salle-à-manger opened its hospitable doors, disclosing a number of small tables, snow-white cloths, sparkling glass and silver; a pleasant vision. Richly dressed ladies, blazing with jewels, fanned themselves with lazy grace. In a quiet corner sat two quiet people, evidently mother and daughter, since the one must have been twenty years ago what the other was now. They were English, as one saw and heard, for we were at the next table. No other country could produce that fair specimen of girlhood; no other country own that lovely face, gentle voice, refined tones: charms of inheritance, destined one day to translate some happy swain to fields Elysian, where the sands of life are golden and run swiftly.

Then came up our cunning maître-d'hôtel, portly and commanding, deigned to glance at the wine card we held, and went in for a little diplomacy.

"A bottle of your excellent '87 St. Julien, M. Pascal;" knowing the wine of old.

"Ah, if monsieur only knew, the Château d'Irrac is superior."

"Is it possible?" incredulous but yielding. "Then let it be Château d'Irrac."

And presently we realised that the '87 St. Julien was growing low in the cellar, whilst many bins of Château d'Irrac cried out to be consumed. We sent for the great man and confided our suspicions, adding, "You cannot compare the two wines." "Monsieur donc knows the St. Julien? Ah," with a keener glance, "I had not remarked. I ask a thousand pardons of monsieur. After all, it is a matter of taste. The Château d'Irrac is much appreciated—especially by the English. Monsieur will allow me to change the wine?"

Amende honorable, but not accepted; and the Château d'Irrac remained.

Presently we entered upon our longer drive to the Gare d'Orléans. Paris had put up her shutters and toned down her illuminations. Shops were closed, lights were out, Vanity Fair had disappeared.

The streets grew more and more empty. Our driver found his way to the river and went down the quays, where on summer evenings lovers of old books spend hours examining long rows of stalls, on which sooner or later every known and unknown literary treasure makes its appearance. Perhaps he was a man who liked the tragic side of life—and where is it more suggested than on the banks of the Seine? Night after night its turbid waters close over the heads of the rashly despairing. The ghastly Morgue is weighted with secrets. Every bridge is surrounded by an atmosphere of sighs. One last look upon the world, the sky, the quiet stars, then the fatal plunge into the silent waters, and another soul has risked the unknown.

Once more in the darkness uprose the outlines of Notre Dame in all the beauty of Gothic refinement; all the delicate lacework and flying buttresses subdued and dreamlike under the night sky.

Who can look upon this architectural wonder without thinking of those historical, twelfth-century days when the first stone was laid, and it slowly rose to perfection? All the centuries that have since rolled on, changing and destroying much of its charm? The perils it went through and did not altogether escape in those terrible days of '93 when, condemned, it was saved by a miracle? That Age of Reason, which drove half the excitable Frenchmen of Paris stark staring mad.

How can we haunt these precincts without thinking of their high priest Victor Hugo, who loved them as Scott and Burns loved their wholesomer banks and braes? Everywhere uprises a vision of the old grey-headed man as we remember him, with pale heavy face, grave earnest manner, deep thoughtful eyes, and on the surface, so little that was light, excitable and French; for ever pondering upon the mysteries of life, human suffering and endurance, broken destinies. His face looks at you from every dark and vacant window in the neighbouring Ile St. Louis. The shadows of Notre Dame fall upon its mediæval roofs; the dark waters of the river wash their foundations, and sometimes flood them also. If they could only whisper their secrets of human sin and suffering, that great army of martyrs who have died, not in defence of the good but in consequence of the evil, the world would surely dissolve and disappear. Many a time has he stood contemplating these problems, planning the destinies of his characters, from the windows of the Hôtel Lambert. Its painted ceilings recall the days of Lebrun, and up and down the old staircases and deserted corridors one hears the cynical laugh of Voltaire and the tripping footsteps of Madame de Châtet.

We left this delightful and romantic atmosphere behind us as our driver pursued his way down the right bank of the Seine.

Another world, inhabited by another people. Darkness reigned; lamps were few and far between; the roar of the great city sounded afar off, and amidst that roar dwelt all the rank and fashion, wealth and intrigue, that turn the heaven-sent manna to ashes of the Dead Sea fruit. Presently he crossed a bridge and there was a flash of lamps upon the dark waters below. The Seine was pursuing her relentless course, carrying her burden of sorrows to the far-off sea, burying them in the ocean of eternity, recording them in the books of heaven.

A few moments more, and at the Gare d'Orléans we dismissed our man with his pourboire. We were in good time, and had the place almost to ourselves. "Le train n'est pas encore fait, monsieur," said a polite official. "Ah! there it comes. You will not be over-crowded to-night, I imagine."

Good hearing, for a night journey in a full train without a reserved carriage means martyrdom. We marked our seats, then walked up and down the lighted platform. It was nearly ten o'clock and passengers were arriving.

Presently, missing H. C., we turned and saw him at the lower end of the train examining the last carriage. What did it mean? Evidently mischief of some sort. The hundred-and-one occasions rose up before us in which we had saved him from ladies with matrimony on the brain, from intrigues, from his susceptible self. Only a year ago there had been that narrow escape in the Madrid hotel with the siren who had married the Russian count. He saw us coming, turned and met us with laughter. What now?

"Come and see," placing his arm in ours. "But don't interfere with the liberty of the subject. I will not be controlled. You shall no longer find me weak and yielding as in other years."

All this went in at one ear and out at the other, as the saying runs. Silence is the best reply to incipient rebellion.

At the last carriage the mystery was solved. In one compartment sat two lovely ladies, waiting the departure of the train to draw down the blinds and settle themselves for the night. H. C. silently pointed to the label, which said: Pour Fumeurs. Fortune seemed to favour his humour for we had seldom seen the announcement on a French carriage. Then he went on to the next compartment. Three young men had entered and were laughing, talking, blowing clouds of smoke. This was labelled Pour Dames Seules. H. C. had quietly changed the iron labels and turned the world upside down. The inmates were in blissful ignorance of the frightful thing that had happened.

"We had no time for the theatre to-night, yet I had a mind for a little comedy," said H. C. "Now we have it on the spot, and without paying. I had such trouble to ram the plaques into the grooves that they will never come out again. Here comes the inspector—evidently not to be trifled with; exactly the man for the occasion. Now for it."

We trembled as the great man approached, each particular hair standing on end, the pallor of death on our cheek. Appearances would have condemned us. H. C., on the other hand, looked innocence itself.

Suddenly the inspector gave a start, exactly reproduced in us; on his part, astonishment and indignation; on ours, nervous terror. Then the door of the compartment was thrown open and the scene began. The inspector's powerful bass voice made itself felt and heard.

"Gentlemen," in his deepest diapason, "what is the meaning of this? How dare you enter a compartment reserved For Ladies Only, fill it with vile smoke, and treat with contempt the rules of our organisation department? For this, gentlemen," waxing wrath and perhaps overstating his case, "I could fine and summons you—and believe I should be justified in handing you over to the Police Correctionnelle. Your act is infamous—and no doubt designed."

Instead of pouring oil upon troubled waters, the young men were combative and defiant.

"Qu'est-ce que vous nous chantez là?" said one. "Surely, my dear inspector, your sight is failing—time rolls on, you know; or you cannot read; or you have dined too well. But if you have your senses about you and examine the plaque closely, you will see that it states: For Smokers. And we are smokers. My compliments to you, Monsieur the famous Inspector. Like Dumas, we are here and we remain."

"Very good," said H. C. innocently looking on. "As a scene at the Vaudeville it would bring down the house and make the fortune of the piece. You ought to be grateful for this little distraction, but you don't look it. All was done so easily and develops so naturally."

The inspector listened whilst this fuel was being added to the fire of his wrath. "We will see about that," he said. "Come out this instant and read for yourself." He grasped the arm of the young man. As he was strong and the youth weak, the result was that Dumas' famous saying fell to the ground and he with it. In a moment he stood upon the platform and read the fatal notice.

"But it is conjuring, it is a miracle!" he cried. "I can assure you, Monsieur the Inspector, that before entering I read the label with my own eyes—we all did. Anatole—de Verriers—I appeal to you for confirmation. It positively stated For Smokers. No, oh no, I am certain of it—and I have not dined too well," laughing in spite of himself. "For Ladies only! It is too good a joke. I assure you we want a quiet night's rest; we don't want to be disturbed by the gentle snoring of the fair sex. An enemy hath done this. Tenez, Monsieur the Inspector," going to the next carriage and reading the label: "look at that. There are the innocent conspirators calmly seated in the compartment. The ladies themselves have done this. I was wrong in saying it was an enemy, for are we not all friends of the lovelier sex? But take my word for it, they are the culprits. Remark how unconscious they look; one sees it is too natural to be real—it is assumed. Poor ladies! They are nervous, perhaps, and want a safeguard about them during the perilous night journey. Or it may be that they even like smoking. After all, it is an innocent little ruse on their part to attain a very harmless end."

"Innocent, sir! harmless!" cried the outraged and perplexed inspector. "We will see!"

He approached the compartment, threw wide the door, addressed the ladies severely, as became his office, but tempered with respect and admiration, as became a man.

"How is this, ladies?" to the startled women. "Allow me to inform you that it is not convenable for members of your sex to deliberately compose themselves for the night in a compartment labelled For Smokers."

"What!" cried the ladies in a breath. "For Smokers? Quel horreur! Monsieur the Inspector, you must be mad, or you have dined too well—l'un ou l'autre. For Smokers! Why, we are horrified at smoke. It makes me cough, it makes my companion sneeze, it gets into our hair, it ruins our complexion. Monsieur the Inspector," shaking out their ruffled plumage, "this is an infamous accusation. We feel ourselves insulted. We shall appeal to the Chef de Gare. You had better at once say that we have done this thing ourselves, whilst the culprits are no doubt those three young men who are laughing behind your back. You have attacked our reputation and we will pursue the matter. When we entered this compartment it was labelled For Ladies Only, and if you will examine the plaque with sober senses you will find it still reads For Ladies Only."

"Mesdames," returned the bewildered inspector, "I will trouble you to alight and read for yourselves. No one shall accuse me of dining too well with impunity; and no one, not even such charming women as yourselves, shall exact an apology for an offence never committed."

Apparently there was nothing else for it. The ladies gracefully alighted, assisted by the gallant but uncompromising inspector, and the fatal words stared them in the face.

"But it is conjuring, it is a miracle!" they cried breathlessly, just as the young men had cried. "An enemy hath done this, Monsieur the Inspector, and the enemy is represented by those three young men who doubtless look upon it as a petite plaisanterie. But if there is law in the land they shall suffer for it. It is nothing more or less than an outrage to our feelings. In the meantime, Monsieur the Inspector, not to delay the train, have the kindness to change back the labels to their right positions, and put those three young men under the surveillance of the guard."

"If it is the last word we ever speak we are guiltless in this matter," protested the young men. "Mephistopheles is no doubt on the platform in disguise"—here we felt a nudge from H. C. and a whispered "Complimentary!"—"but we beg to say that we are not Fausts, and we have no reason to suppose these ladies are Marguerites."

The outraged ladies were absolutely speechless with anger; twice they opened their mouths but no sound would come. And as the train was now about to start, there was nothing for it but to re-enter their compartment. The young men did likewise. The doors were closed. The inspector tried to remove the offending labels. They would not budge. He brought all his strength to bear upon them, but they were fixed as the stars in their course. If Mephistopheles had been at work, he had done his work well. The plaques might have been soldered in their sockets. The inspector was guilty of language not quite parliamentary. He felt mystified, baffled; the whole thing was inexplicable.

There came a cry down the platform: "En voiture, messieurs!" Our own carriage was some way off; we went up and entered, hiring pillows for the night. Final doors were slammed; the train moved off. And the ladies were in a compartment labelled For Smokers, and the three young men had to themselves the carriage Pour Dames Seules. They must have been laughing immoderately, for the inspector shook his fist as they slowly rolled away; and the shake said as plainly as though we had heard the words: "There go the culprits! Ah, scélérats! If I only had you now in my grasp!" The young men must have interpreted the action in like manner, for the window was suddenly put down and three hands waved him a derisive farewell.

We rolled away in the darkness. The lights of Paris grew faint and dreamy, then went out. All the old familiar landmarks were invisible, and when we crossed the Seine not a star was reflected in its deep dark waters.

As the night went on we passed through the glorious country of the Orléanais, washed by the waters of the historical and romantic Loire. Who that has gone down its broad winding course can forget the charms of its ancient towns? The halo surrounding Orléans, the pure accents of Tours, the architectural wonders of Loches—home of the Plantagenets—its towers and churches visible even under the stars; and beyond Nantes, the gentle splendours of La Vendée. Porters in the darkness of night shouted "Orléans!" and we felt in the very garden of France, where nature is so bountiful that the labour of man is hardly needed to bring forth the fruits of the earth. In these sunny provinces dwell the happiest, most light-hearted of her sons. The earth abundantly furnishes their daily bread and wine. It comes without trouble and is eaten without care.

Night and darkness rolled away. We approached Bordeaux. Last year, at this same hour, about this same time, we had found it enveloped in mist, had made the acquaintance of Monsieur le Comte San Salvador de la Veronnière, and wondered how his small body bore the weight of its majestic name. But the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb and the back is fitted to the burden. This time there was no comte and no mist. We had watched the dawn break and a glorious sunrise turn fleecy clouds into flaming swords. The earth awoke and the lovely woods and forests, with their wealth of fern and bracken, were touched with rosy glowing light as the sun shot above the horizon.

Just before reaching Bordeaux we made a discovery. A secret impulse urged us to examine our luggage-ticket, and we were electrified at finding it registered to Irun instead of Portbou. Steaming into the crazy old station, we found out the station-master, and explained the difficulty. He was politeness itself, and once more we could not help contrasting the courtesy of the French officials with the less agreeable manners of the Spanish.

"This would have been serious," said M. le Chef. "I am glad you found it out in time. After Bordeaux it would have been too late. You and your luggage would have gone your separate ways."

Then calling a porter, he handed him the ticket, bade him search the luggage-vans and bring away the numbers indicated.

"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.

The new town lies in the plain, quietly industrious as the old is silent and dead, modern and commonplace as the other is ancient and romantic. Trees overshadow the boulevards, costly fountains plash through the hot days and nights of summer, running streams make the air musical and reflect the sapphire skies.

On one side runs the great Canal du Midi, Canal des deux Mers, as it is called, uniting the Mediterranean with the Atlantic. Two hundred and fifty years ago it was one of the finest engineering works in the world, and perhaps would never have been finished but for the encouragement of le Grand Monarque, prime mover in that âge d'or when the literary firmament was studded with such stars of the first order as Molière, Corneille, Lafontaine, Bossuet, Fénélon, Pascal, and last, not least, Madame de Sevigné. There came a crowd of splendours, a succession of startling events, into that lengthened reign, our own Marlborough taking his part in such decisive battles as Blenheim and Malplaquet.

This Canal du Midi, reflecting the outlines of Carcassonne, added much to the trade of Southern France. If that has declined amidst the world's chances and changes, its numerous barges plying to and fro with sails set to the evening breeze and the setting sun, still form one of earth's most rare and beautiful scenes, full of calm repose. Corn and wine and oil are their freights; rich Argosies commanded by many a modern Jason, carrying many a Golden Fleece to the fair and flourishing towns that lie in its path between the tideless shores of the Levant and the restless waters of Biscay.

On the other side of the town runs the River Aude, also reflecting the ancient outlines of Carcassonne in waters less placid than those of the great Canal. This takes its way through a fertile valley given up to vines and olives, fig-trees and pomegranates; and here flock crowds of invalids to the mineral baths and waters, penances due to indiscretions of the table or sins of their forefathers.

Our train rolled over both these waterways on its journey towards Narbonne.

By this time we had realised that we had been misinformed as to the hour we should reach Gerona, our first resting-place, adding one more record to the chapter of small accidents. At Narbonne we had the good fortune to find a Chef de Gare civil and obliging as he of Bordeaux, who declared it impossible to reach Gerona that day as there was no railway communication. We should have to spend the night at Portbou, the Spanish frontier, where our quarters would be wretched, and all our sweet turn to bitter against those who had misled us.

We decided at once. "Better remain where there is a good inn, than go on to the miseries of Portbou, Monsieur le Chef."

"That is clear," he replied. "Here you will be comfortable—and on French ground," laughing: "a virtue in my eyes, and I hope in yours also."

We willingly agreed. "But our luggage? It is registered to Portbou."

He looked grave. "That is unfortunate; it must go on to Portbou. I cannot give it to you. It is against all rules, and I greatly regret it."

"Yet we cannot do without it. If you send it on to Portbou, we cannot remain behind. Have you the heart to consign us to that chambre de tortures?"

He paused a moment, revolving the momentous situation. "No," he laughed at length, "I cannot do that, and for once will make an exception in your favour. Advienne que pourra, you shall have your luggage."

Then in the kindest way he personally superintended the matter, delayed the train until the luggage was found, and carried out sundry forms necessary for the next day's journey.

We discovered very little in Narbonne to repay our change of plans, but the hotel was comfortable and the energetic landlady a character worth studying. Grass never grew under her feet. She seemed gifted with ubiquity, and startled one by her rapid movements. A capable woman, who made her little world work with a will, wound them up and set them going. If the machinery flagged, she at once applied the master-key of her energy, and the wheels went on again.

To-day she was on her mettle, as she informed us, having a large wedding dinner on hand. "To-night was the diner de contrat, to-morrow the diner de noce. A hundred and fifty people would sit down to it, and she expected great conviviality."

Nor was she disappointed, if the noise we heard later on was any sign of festive enjoyment. Loud laughter, applause, healths pledged, good wishes bestowed—all indicated the state of the assembled guests.

Madame had taken us into the banquet-room to prove that she was capable of decorating her table very effectively. Glass and silver glittered under the rays of light; flowers perfumed the air; orange-trees stood in corners, fruit and flowers mingled their delights. We asked for whom all this extensive preparation.

"The daughter of an innkeeper, with a magnificent dowry, was marrying one of the most popular doctors of the place. But it was really a mariage d'amour, not merely de convenance. Les mariés were both delightful. One hardly knew which to congratulate the most. In short, it was one of those rare events in life when the social sky is without a cloud."

Madame was almost poetical in her enthusiasm. But she was no less practical, and it was wonderful how everything went smoothly under her guidance.

"Narbonne, famous for its honey." We seemed to remember this as one of our geography lines in days gone by. "But where was the honey?" we asked during the course of our own dinner, which madame was quite equal to in spite of the greater ceremony on hand.

"You may well ask," placing upon the table a choice bottle of the vin-du-pays, which she saw unsealed and uncorked by one of her officials who had just been wound up again and was flying about the room like a firework. "You may well ask, monsieur. No house so badly supplied with coals as the charbonnier, and in Narbonne we see little of our own honey. Like the fish in a seaport, it is all sent away, and you will find more of it in Paris than here. But I will try to unearth a jar from my stores."

Apparently the quest was unsuccessful, for no honey appeared. Or it may be that in contemplating the lune de miel in the garlanded banqueting-room the more material article was lost sight of. With one hundred and fifty people on her brain, no wonder if small matters were forgotten. And yet madame seemed of those who forget nothing, her faculties embracing both wide organisation and minute detail. A thin, wiry woman, with a quick walk and a light step, dark eyes that nothing escaped, yet without tyranny or sharpness of manner. Only once did we hear her rebuking one of her waiters for the sin of procrastination.

"Leave nothing till to-morrow that can be done to-day," she wound up with, "or you will soon find the world ahead and you left behind in the race. Those are the people that come to poverty and have only themselves to thank for it. That, monsieur," turning to us who waited a direction, "is the reason we cannot very much help what are called the poor. Some great failing brings them to that condition—laziness, stupidity or vice, and your aid will never give them energy, wisdom or virtue."

Then the direction we asked for was bestowed, and the erring waiter ordered to show us the way to the cathedral.

In the town we found very little that was not ordinary and common-place. It is ancient, its streets are badly paved and tortuous, and it possesses scarcely anything in the way of picturesque outlines, nothing in the way of Roman remains. Yet it flourished as far back as the fifth century B.C., and in the first century was in the hands of the Romans, great in theatres, baths, temples, and triumphal arches. Of these not a vestige has survived.

It was one of the great ports of the Mediterranean, which flowed up to its foundations, but has gradually receded some eight miles. From one of the great towers of the Hôtel de Ville you may trace the outlines of the Cevennes and Pyrenees on the one side, on the other watch the broad blue waters shimmering in the sunshine, more beautiful than a dream in their deep sapphire; you may count the white-winged boats sailing lazily to and fro upon its flashing surface; and on still, dark nights, when the stars are large and brilliant, watch the lights of fishing fleets clustered together, and hear upon the shore the gentle plash of this tideless sea.

On such summer nights the Allée des Soupirs is the favourite walk of the people. Whence its sad, romantic name? Has it seen many sorrows? Do ghosts of the past haunt it with long-drawn sighs? Has it had more than its share of Abelards and Héloïses, Romeos and Juliets? Has some sorrowful Atala been borne under its branches to a desert grave, some Dante mourned here his lost Beatrice, some Petrarch his Laura?

We knew not, and turning from it climbed the ill-paved streets towards the Cathedral—a Cathedral no longer, for Narbonne, once an Archbishopric, has been shorn of ecclesiastical dignity.

As far as it went, we found it a fine, interesting, but unfinished Gothic building of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Little beyond the choir exists—a splendid fragment, but a fragment only. It might have been one of the world's wonders.

We entered for the second time in the gloaming, when its great height was lost in shadows. A few lights about the church and on the altar deepened the mystery. A few kneeling figures motionless at their devotions added their quiet pathos to the scene. From the end of the choir it had the effect of a vast church infinitely impressive. An immense nave with aisles and pillars and vaulted roofs might stretch behind us. Such was the intention of the architect, but his plans were not carried out. In reality there was nothing. Within a few feet came the narrow outer passage and the dead wall of the west front; but in the darkness all this was not realised. We only saw the splendid choir, vast height, graceful outlines, groined roof, pointed arches, and slender pillars, steeped in the mystery and shadow of a dim religious light by the few candles gleaming here and there like faint stars in the night. Some of the painted glass was beautiful, as we had seen earlier in the day, and much of the sixteenth century flamboyant tracery was very good. There were many fine tombs and statues.

The Gothic Hôtel de Ville close by is partly modern. A portion of it formed the ancient Archbishop's Palace, and some of this remains, more especially the old towers. The courtyard has a few interesting outlines, and the staircase leading to the museum is of broad, massive marble. Up and down these stairs and corridors was once wont to pass the proud footstep of a primate, with head erect under the cardinal's red hat, whilst the rustle of silken robes, white and scarlet, whispered of greatness and vanity. It now shines by the light of other days. All its pomp and pride has vanished; dead, silent and deserted, its glory has been transferred to Toulouse, now the Archbishop's See.

We discovered the ancient dame who keeps the keys of the Museum. She dwells in almost an underground room of the building, a distant wing in the garden, where in days gone by the Archbishop paced and meditated in the seclusion of impenetrable walls. Looking upwards nothing would arrest the eye but the far-off serene sky and unfinished fragment of the Cathedral. It is still a grey, venerable pile, this wing, silent and empty.

But in the quiet little lodge of the custodian hearts still beat to the tune of life's small dramas. A slight altercation was going on. The dame was laying down the law to a young man, evidently her son. What the transgression we could not tell. Possibly debt, and he had come to draw upon the hard-earned savings in the chimney-corner: a sort of mental and moral earthquake to the frugal mother-mind. Perhaps he was announcing his marriage with one who would make him a bad wife. Or he had grown tired of his narrow world, and pleaded to cross the seas and begin life on a new soil. Whatever it might be, he departed looking very much as if he too had his burden to bear. In passing he saluted, and said, "Bonjour, messieurs," and his looks were comely and his voice was pleasant. He had the air of a sailor, and possibly was a fisherman from the little port eight miles off. When he had disappeared beyond the trees, the old mother, who must also have been comely in her day, took the keys and led the way up the broad marble staircase to the Museum. The shades of evening were gathering, and our visit would almost have been lost labour had there been anything else to do. It was too dark to judge fairly, but amidst a great amount of rubbish we thought we discovered a few good old pictures.

Long after the sun had set and the afterglow had faded, we went back to the hotel and madame's hospitable attentions.

She was determined we should not suffer from the demands of the banquet. The whole corridor was now lined with orange trees, whose sheeny green leaves stood out in strong contrast with some strings of red peppers she had artistically festooned against the walls; so that from the entrance to the dining-room the procession would walk through an avenue of peace and plenty. The effect was charming. Nothing could be more beautiful than the luscious perfumed blossoms, richer than the deep foliage, more picturesque than the scented golden fruit hanging gracefully from the branches. As night went on, the sounds of merriment grew louder. Champagne could not run like water without leading to noisy if not brilliant wit. A hundred and fifty sons and daughters of sunny Southern France might be trusted to make the most of their opportunity.

We left them to their rites when by-and-by the clock struck ten, lights began to burn dim, and we realised that a sleepless night in the train is more or less trying. Bidding madame le bonsoir, who flashed to and fro like lightning, yet was neither hurried nor flurried, she politely returned us la bonne nuit; adding, with a certain dry humour, that after all she was glad marriages were not an everyday occurrence—at any rate from her hotel. If profitable, they were fatiguing.

Next morning we rose before dawn. The man came in, lighted our candles, and said it was time to rise. We thought we had slept five minutes; the unconscious hours had passed too quickly. Overnight we had settled to take an early train, and devote a few hours to Perpignan; hours of enforced waiting on our way to Gerona. After an amount of rapping and calling that might have roused the dead, H. C. had risen, lighted his own candles, and protested by going back to bed and to slumber. Fortunately the man went up to his room half an hour after, and seeing the state of affairs upset the fire-irons, knocked down a couple of chairs, and opened the window with a rattle.

"Are those wedding people still at it?" murmured H. C., in his dreams. "It must be past midnight." Then consciousness dawned upon him and the full measure of his iniquity; and presently he came down to a late breakfast, subdued and repentant.

Early as it was, madame was at her post, brisk and wide-awake as though yesterday had been nothing but a very ordinary fête-day. It was that uncomfortable hour when the early morning light creeps in, and candles and gas-lamps show pale and unearthly. The room looked chilly and forsaken; that last-night aspect that is always so ghostlike and unfamiliar. A white mist hung over the outer world.

Then the most comforting thing on earth made its triumphant entry—a brimming teapot; and with the addition of tea tabloids a fine brew of the cup which cheers sent our mental barometer to fair weather. We were even admitted to the internal economy of the establishment. In came the baker with a basket of steaming rolls giving out a delicious odour of bread fresh from the oven; and with new-churned butter—the last we tasted for many a long day—we made an ambrosial breakfast. In a few minutes, madame cloaked and bonneted, came up to wish us bon voyage, with a hope that we should again visit Narbonne. Nothing is certain in this world or we should have told her it was a very forlorn hope.

"I have to go to market," she said, "and the sooner I am there the better my choice of provisions. To-day, too, I have my diner de noce, and must be back early. Vraiment, c'est une charge! Ah! they amused themselves last night! What headaches to-day, je parie, in spite of the excellence of the wines. Enfin! Il faut payer pour ses plaisirs."

"But, madame, you are perpetual motion. You go to bed late—if you go to bed at all, which we begin to doubt—and rise up early. This morning you look as fresh as a rose. Have you the gift of eternal youth?"

Madame was not above a compliment, and smiled her pleasure. "Quant il y a de la bonne volonté—" she laughed. "There is the whole secret. And now, au revoir, messieurs. Bon voyage. Portez vous bien. My best wishes go with you."

"Au revoir, on one condition, madame. That the next time we come you present us without fail with a pot of Narbonne honey."

Madame uttered a cry, fell back a pace or two, struck her forehead reproachfully, and disappeared like a flash into the street. Up rattled the omnibus, absorbing ourselves and our traps. Narbonne was of the past.

A short journey landed us at an early hour at Perpignan. We had passed nothing very interesting on the road, for just here the sunny South seems to have stayed her bountiful hand. The low bare outlines of the rocky Corbières were traced, and great stretches of heath where bees gathered the famous honey we were not permitted to enjoy. Here and there were immense salt lakes, giving the country a flooded appearance, bringing fever to the neighbourhood. Once, years ago, passing these endless lake districts in the night, weird, solemn, mysterious, we wondered what they could be. One saw nothing but a world under water, reflecting the stars; occasionally the black outline of some small boat with the flash of a low-lying lamp streaming over its surface. And presently, this morning, there was the blue Mediterranean to make up for all other shortcomings.

Then Perpignan. This time we separated from our old-man-of-the-sea; the baggage went on to Portbou to await our afternoon arrival.

We felt we ought to know Perpignan, and with affection, for it was once the residence of the kings of Majorca. But that was seven hundred years ago, and it has gone through many changes at the hands of many masters. For centuries it belonged to Spain, and still looks more Spanish than French. Only in the middle of the seventeenth century was it finally annexed to France by Richelieu. In summer its narrow streets are covered with awnings, many of its buildings are moresque, and its houses have the iron and wooden courts and balconies so common to Spain. Some of its thoroughfares are picturesque and arcaded, and every now and then you come upon an assemblage of wonderful roofs with their red tiles, gorgeous creepers, and enormous vines; but they are the exception. It is strongly fortified, and some of the old gateways are interesting. In days gone by these fortifications were needed, for Perpignan was the great point of defence in the Eastern Pyrenees between Spain and France. The Cathedral is chiefly famous for the immense span of its vault. In this it resembles Majorca, but is infinitely less beautiful. Though larger, Perpignan seemed still more quiet and dead than Narbonne. We soon exhausted its merits, and the hour for departure found us ready. At the moment we were in the great courtyard of the inn watching the chef in white cap and apron at a small table on the opposite side, enjoying his dessert and hour of repose, to which coffee and cognac formed the conclusion. For that hour he was a gentleman of leisure and had earned his ease.

There was no time to visit Elne with its old Romanesque Cathedral and cloisters worth a king's ransom; and keen was the regret as we passed it in the train, and noticed its decayed aspect and wonderful outlines rising above the town like a rare twelfth-century vision. Here Hannibal encamped on his way to Rome. Here came Constantine and named it Elena in memory of his mother. Here the Emperor Constantine was assassinated by order of Maxentius. Here came the Moors in the eighth century, the Normans in the eleventh, the kings of France in the thirteenth, fifteenth, and seventeenth centuries; all more or less destructive in their changes.

And now it remains a small dead town; grass grows in its streets, where eternal silence reigns. Passing away, we noted how its clear outlines stood out against the blue sky of the South, whilst beyond it stretched the sapphire waters of the Levant.

The train hurried on, and at Cerbère we bade farewell to pleasant France: a language that rings music in our ears; a people for whom we have a sincere affection. In the space of a few yards we seemed to pass from one country and people and tongue to another. At Cerbère nothing but French was heard. A few minutes afterwards, at Portbou, we spoke in French to one of the officials, who listened to the end, shook his head, and gruffly said "No entendo." We had entered Spain—land of slow trains, abrupt officials, many discomforts, but of romance and beauty. Once more we thought fate was to be against us. As inevitably as the slippers turned up in the Eastern story, so it seemed that our luggage was destined to be the bête noire of our wanderings.

"You wish to go to Gerona," said the station-master; "but your ticket only states Barcelona. If you break your journey at Gerona, your luggage must go on to the farther town."

Again we protested—and again conquered. "For once I yield and make you an exception," said the chef; "but you will have trouble at Gerona." All this had taken time, and the train moved off as we entered.

At eight o'clock we reached Gerona, and even in the darkness could see its wonderful outlines; its countless reflections in the river that rolled below. The station was in an uproar. Crowds of people, young men and old, surged to and fro. Deafening shouts arose. What was the matter, and what could it mean? We gave a shrewd guess. Conscripts were going off, and all this crowd and noise was a farewell ovation, in which the conscripts joined uproariously. On the platform we almost fell against two stalwart old men, who stood conspicuously above the multitude. Each had evidently come to see a son off. One was especially a typical Catalonian, with strongly marked features, broad-brimmed hat, and picturesque costume. His friend called him Pedro. They had probably grown up and grown old together, and life, youth and the heritage of the world were being handed on to the boys—who no doubt troubled themselves very little about the matter.

We made way into the luggage-room. "Ah!" cried the porter, looking at our tickets. "This is incorrect and cannot be passed." And he turned to the superintendent.

"Diablo!" cried the latter impatiently. "Do you think I can be troubled with luggage on such a night as this? Take it where the gentlemen desire you! Maldicion!"

Saved once more. As we walked outside through the crowd, a deafening cheer went up.

"What can it mean?" said H. C. "Have they discovered that I am a poet, and all this is a little delicate attention on their part? If so, I must say they are appreciative. Perhaps my volume of Lyrics, dedicated to my aunt, Lady Maria, has been translated into Spanish, and has—ahem!—found more popularity here than at home. Ah!—Oh!"

The exclamation was caused by a sudden tearing away of the omnibus we had entered, whereby H. C. found himself sprawling in a most unpoetical attitude. Picking himself up as carefully as if he had been made of delicate china suffering from a few compound fractures, he rubbed his bruised knees sympathetically, and quietly asked if we had brought a supply of Elliman's embrocation.

So quickly one passes from poetry to prose, from the sublime to the ridiculous.

CHAPTER III.
BLACK COFFEE—AND A CONFESSION.

Continued uproar—H. C. disillusioned—A dark night—Not like another Cæsar—More crowds—A demon scene—Fair time—Glorious days of the past—In marble halls and labyrinthine passages—Our excellent host—His substantial partner—Contented minds—Picturesque court—Songless nightingales—Conscription—H. C.'s modesty—Our host appreciative but personal—Bears the torch of genius—A mistake—Below the salt—Host's fair daughters—Catalonian women—The Silent Enigma—Remarkable priest—Good intentions—Lecture on black coffee—Confessions—Benjamin's portions—A gifted nature.

OUR omnibus rattled off, with the result described. The crowd still cheered; a prolonged and mighty strain. As we went on this grew fainter by degrees, yet did not cease. H. C. collected his thoughts and looked about him. In the dim glimmer of the omnibus lamp we saw shades of doubt and disappointment in his face.

"I begin to think this ovation was not for me after all," he said. "They would hardly go on shouting insanely when we are out of sight and hearing. The people would have accompanied us; taken the horses out of the omnibus; drawn us up to the inn, where I should have arrived like another Cæsar. My volume of Lyrics is worth this recognition if they have rendered all the fire and spirit of its theme, beauty of language, charm of rhythm and rhyme. Above all, my dedication to Lady Maria, a masterpiece of English composition and delicate flattery. I begin to think there must be some other cause for this demonstration. And if it is not a poetical reception, I should call it a disgraceful riot."

He paused for breath. We were now going up-hill, and even the horses found it a tug-of-war. "The people would have had some trouble in dragging you up here," we remarked, as the animals toiled slowly onwards.

"Enthusiasm will carry you through anything," said H. C. "If I assisted at a demonstration I would help to drag a coach up the Matterhorn, and succeed or perish in the attempt. But these people evidently have some other object in view—organising a raid on the train, proclaiming a republic, or something equally barbarous. What a very dark night!"

We looked out. The stars had disappeared. The sky was overcast and threatening. Our horses struggled on and soon entered the town. Crossing the bridge over the river we noticed everywhere an unusual crowd of people, flaring lamps and torches, a sea of upturned faces thrown into lights and shadows that looked weird and demon-like, an undercurrent of voices, a perpetual movement.

What could it all mean? We expected to find Gerona, in spite of its 20,000 inhabitants, almost a dead city, full of traces of the past, oblivious of the present; a city of outlines, echoes and visions of the Middle Ages. We looked down the tree-lined boulevard and felt the very word a desecration of the buried centuries. The broad thoroughfare ran beside the river, and the trees followed each other in quick succession. Without and within their shadows a long double row of booths held sway, whose flaming torches turned night into day, paradise into pandemonium.

A great fair possessed the town, thronged with sightseers of all ages and every stage of emotion. We lamented our fate in visiting Gerona at such a time, but in the end it interfered very little either with our comfort or impressions. It had its own quarters and kept to them.

The omnibus passed into narrower thoroughfares, without any trace of fair, sign or sound of excitement or flaming torches. All was delightfully dead as the most advanced antiquarian could desire when we drew up at the Fondu de los Italianos.

Most of the hotels in the smaller towns of Spain have little to do with the ground floor of the building, often nothing but a cold, unlighted, deserted passage, sometimes leading to a stable yard. No one receives you, and you have to find your own way upstairs. When there is a choice of staircases you probably take the wrong one. On this occasion we had only one course before us—broad white marble stairs that bore witness to a very different destiny in days gone by, the pomp and splendour of life, the glory of the world. At the head of this sumptuous staircase our host met us with a polite bow and welcome; and throughout Spain we never met landlord more intelligent and well-informed, more agreeable and anxiously civil. We were puzzled as to his nationality. He did not look Catalonian, or Spanish of any sort, spoke excellent French, yet was decidedly not a Frenchman. When the mystery was solved we found him an Italian. A man ruling very differently from our energetic hostess at Narbonne, who, full of electricity herself, seemed to have the power of galvanising every one else into perpetual motion.

Our Gerona host was quiet and passive, as though all day long he had nothing to do but rest on his oars and take life easily. He never hastened his walk beyond a certain measure or raised his voice above a gentle tone. Yet, like well-oiled works, he kept the complicated machinery in order. There was no friction and no noise, but everything came up to time. He was last in bed at night, first up in the morning. A tall, thin, dark man, with an expression of face in which there was no trace of impatient fretting at life. If wealth had not come to him (we knew not how that was), evil days had passed him by. He had learned the secret of contentment, and was a man of peace. Yet he had brought up a large family of sons and daughters, and could not have escaped care and responsibility. They now took their part in the ménage, but it was evident that without the father nothing would hold together for an hour.

The youngest son, a tall, presentable young fellow, had been partly educated at Tours and spoke very good French. His ambition now was to spend two years in England to perfect himself in the language, which he was good enough to consider difficult and barbarous. "French," he plaintively observed, "is pronounced very much as it is spelt; so are Spanish and Italian; I have them all at my finger-ends. But English has done its best to confound all foreigners. It is worse than Russian or Chinese."

This he related the next day as we went about the town, for we had accepted his polite offer to guide us; and very intelligent and painstaking he proved himself.

Our host's wife was fat, broad and buxom as the husband was the opposite. When her homely face beamed upon her guests from behind the counter of her little bureau, she looked the picture of an amiable Dutch vrouw. Nothing less than a Frank Hals could have done her justice. Her lines seemed to have been cast in pleasant places, and her days also had been without shadow of evil.

It was also evident that our host was cheerfully disposed. His walls were all painted with landscapes, and if rainbow-colours predominated, he reasoned that they were more enlivening than grey skies and dark shadows. Even the walls of his garden-court had not escaped: a court put to many uses, level with the first floor, bounded on one side by the kitchen, on the other by the dining-room, at right angles with each other. A picturesque court with a slightly Italian atmosphere about it, due perhaps to the sunny landscapes. Orange and small eucalyptus trees stood about in large tubs. The far end was roofed, and the fine red tiles slanted downwards. Over these grew a large abundant vine bearing rich clusters of grapes in due season. Under the eaves were hung cages with captive nightingales and thrushes that looked anything but unhappy prisoners.

"In the spring they sing gloriously," said our host, who, evidently full of tender mercies as of cheerfulness, gazed affectionately at his birds. "I hang them outside our front windows sometimes, and night and day the street echoes with the nightingales' song. You may close your eyes and fancy yourself in the heart of a wood. I have often done so, and dreamed I was in my Italian home, listening to the birds on the one hand, the murmur of the Mediterranean on the other. That is one reason why I love and keep them. They bring back lost echoes, and make me feel young again."

Pigeons and doves strutted about the yard, and were evidently considered very nearly as sacred as those of St. Mark's, for they were as fearless as if the days of the millennium had come at last.

But on the first evening of our arrival we had yet to learn the many virtues of our host. We only saw in broad outlines that we were in good hands.

"Not having telegraphed, you are fortunate to find accommodation, sirs," he said, as he lighted candles and marshalled us to his best rooms. "Last year at the fair we were full to overflowing—not an available hole or corner to spare. This year we are comparatively empty, simply because the town corporation have not organised the usual fêtes, which bring us visitors from all parts of the country. Nevertheless we may be full to-morrow."

"It is an annual fair, then?"

"Very much so, and one of the most celebrated in Spain. This is the first night, to-morrow the first day. That and the next day are comparatively quiet; the day after comes the horse and cattle fair, and the whole town is crowded with a rough, noisy set of people. You would hardly think them agreeable."

"In that case our visit to Gerona must terminate within forty-eight hours. The train which brought us to-night shall take us on to Barcelona."

"Where you have it more civilised but will not be more welcome," said our polite host, still leading the way.

The corridors were paved with stone, the ceilings were lofty. Turning into a narrower passage to the right, we looked into the yard, where our famous omnibus reposed; the horses had been taken out and were marching up to their stable. This passage led to a salon, out of which one of our bedrooms opened; our host had given us of his best. Placing one of the candles down and lighting others, he turned to see that everything was in order. We opened the window and looked out to the main street—long, narrow, almost in darkness. Electric lamps here and there gave little light. "Why so?" we asked the landlord.

"Because we get our motive force from the river; and just now the river is almost dry," he replied. "So they have to work with a machine, and the machine is not strong enough to light the whole town. That is why I don't have it in the hotel. One day we should have illumination, the next total darkness. Better go on in the old way."

"There was quite a riot at the station," we remarked; "we were told it had to do with conscription. At one time we thought they were going to storm the omnibus."

"You were well-informed," said the landlord; "it is the conscription. Fathers, brothers and cousins have assembled to see the poor fellows depart. Generally speaking they all turn up again after a time, like bad money; but on this occasion who knows? Raw recruits as they are, many may get drafted off to Cuba, with small chance of ever seeing their native land again. Luckily they are more full of excitement at the change of life and scene than of regret at leaving home. The noise, as you say, might be that of a riot; without exception, the Spanish are the noisiest people in the world, but it means nothing. It is the froth of champagne, and when it subsides there is good wine beneath."

"Are the people of Gerona poetical?" asked H. C., rather anxiously.

"Poetical, sir?" with a puzzled expression. "Do you mean to ask if they write poetry, like Dante and Shakespeare? You do them too much honour."

"No, one could hardly expect that of them. But do they read and appreciate the poetry of others? There was a moment when I thought that crowd at the station was an ovation in honour of——"

H. C. paused and lowered his eyes modestly. Our intelligent landlord at once divined his meaning. We invariably found that he guessed things by intuition; two words of explanation with him went as far as twenty with others.

"Ah, I understand. You, sir, are a poet, and at first thought this riotous assemblage an ovation in your honour. I fear I must undeceive you—though you probably have already undeceived yourself. I hope it was not a bitter awakening. Still, I am enchanted to make the acquaintance of an English poet. I once saw and spoke to Mr. Browning in Italy. He did not look to me at all poetical. One pictures a poet with pale face, dreamy eyes, flowing locks, and abstracted manner. Mr. Browning was the opposite of all this. Now you, sir, with that beautiful regard and far-away expression looking into nothingness——"

H. C. bowed his acknowledgments; our host though flattering was growing a little personal.

"You have lost your poet-laureate," he continued; "and another has not been appointed. I read the newspapers and know the leading events of every country; for though I live out of the world, I must know everything that is going on there. Perhaps, sir, you are to be the new poet-laureate?"

"Not at present," said H. C., flushing deeply as a vision of future greatness rose up before him. "I hope to be so in time. At present I am rather young to bear the weight of the laurel wreath, which seldom adorns the unwrinkled brow."

"There is rhythm in your prose," said the landlord in quiet appreciation. "Truth will out. But, sir, though a poet, you are mortal; at least I conclude so, in spite of your diaphanous form and spiritual regard; and I bethink me that time flies in talking, and we shall have dinner ready before we can turn round. In England, being a poet, you probably feast upon butterflies' wings and the bloom of peaches; but——"

"On the contrary," cried H. C. hastily; "I have an excellent appetite and love substantial dishes. Crystallised violets and the bloom of peaches I leave to my aunt, Lady Maria. Like George III. my favourite repast is boiled mutton and apple dumplings; and like the king I have never been able to understand how the apples get inside the pastry. That does not affect their flavour. So we will, if you please, make ready for dinner. Do you patronise the French or Spanish cuisine? Oh, I am indifferent. It is a mere matter of butter versus oil, and both are good."

Then they went off in a procession of two, the landlord carrying the flambeau. "We will look upon it as the torch of genius," said the latter, "and I am proud to bear it. But methinks, sir, it should be in your hands." After this we heard only receding footsteps.

The scene presently changed to the dining-room. At first we had made for the wrong room devoted to the humbler folk indoors and out. Here, too, the landlord and his own people took their meals; and once or twice, casting a glance in passing, it was a pleasure to see how madame's broad buxom face and capacious form was doing justice to the good things on the festive board. Her husband and children did not take after her; they were all very much after Pharaoh's lean kine: she could have sheltered them all under her ample wing.

We were rather horrified on entering. A few curious looking people, very much sans gêne, sat at a table in a state of disorder. Even H. C.'s capacious appetite would have fled at the aspect of things. From a door beyond opening to the kitchen came sounds of fizzing and frying and savoury fumes. The chef and his imps were flitting about excitedly.

We were beginning to think that after all our lines had fallen in strange places, when the landlord appeared at the door, pounced upon us, and marshalled us off the premises.

"That is not for you, sir," he said. "We are obliged to have two rooms. A certain number will neither pay fair prices nor heed good manners, and these we place below the salt, as I have read in some of your English books. I put up with them because it would not answer me to have three rooms. And then we have our meals when nobody else has theirs, and waiting and running to and fro is over for the moment. To keep an hotel is indeed no sinecure."

Saying this, he led the way to a large and unobjectionable room, its walls adorned with the sunny landscapes already described. If perspective and colouring were eccentric, why, we had only to think that variety was charming, as H. C. observed, and defects became virtues. The room was well illuminated with gas, whatever might be going on in the streets; to no tenebrous repast were we invited. The linen was snow-white. Our host's daughters waited quietly and silently, with a certain grace of manner: dark-eyed, good-looking young women, with something both Italian and Spanish about them, whereby we imagined the buxom lady-mother was probably Catalonian.

Throughout Catalonia we observed that the women after a certain age—by no means old age—grow inordinately stout. Time after time a little whipper-snapper, lean, shrivelled and short would enter a dining-room followed by an enormous spouse, who came crushing down upon him like a Himalaya mountain upon a sand-hill. They would take their seat at a table, the lady with a great deal of difficult arranging, and the little husband would gaze up at the huge wife with adoration in his eyes, as proudly as if she had been the Venus de Milo come to life with all her arms and legs about her and a fair proportion of garments. The back is fitted to the burden, but here the order of things was reversed—the wife's broad shoulders must needs bear the weight of life.

There were no stout ladies in the dining-room to-night. At different parts of the long table sat some eight or ten people of various nations. Opposite us were two Englishmen separated by a Spaniard. They were of one party, yet never spoke a word from the time they entered to the time they left. Occasionally they glared at each other on passing a dish or the wine of the country, which was supplied ad libitum. What the entente cordiale or bone of contention we never discovered; every meal they kept to their silent programme, until it became almost oppressive. Once or twice we thought they were perhaps monks of La Trappe in disguise, but gave up the idea as far-fetched. The Englishmen, at any rate, judging by expression, were certainly not devoted to fasting and penance. They were young, and the world held attractions not at all in harmony with solitary cells and the midnight mass. We never solved the Silent Enigma, as H. C. called them.

Not far off sat a priest, who no doubt had himself helped to celebrate many a midnight mass, perhaps both in and out of a monastery. He was the most interesting character at table, tall, distinguished looking, with flowing white hair, a singularly handsome face and magnificent head. The system of serving was different from most hotels. Dishes were not handed round, but every person or party had placed before them their own dish, of which each took as much or as little as they pleased. Whether the priest was father confessor to the ladies of the inn, or whether they merely had a very proper respect for his cloth, we knew not, but he invariably came in for a Benjamin's portion, and sent most of it away untasted.

Also it was evident that he could sit in judgment on others. The next day at luncheon he took his seat next to us. We were suffering from headache, which has made life more or less a burden. Severe diseases require strong remedies. We ate dry bread, and drank sundry cups of black coffee mixed with brandy; the latter half a century old and almost as mild as milk, its healing properties sovereign. The priest, we say, sat next, and we almost resented his not leaving the breathing interval of a chair between us, where empty chairs were abundant. The Silent Enigma at the lower end of the table were quite a long way off. At our second cup, the priest looked anxious; at our third, reproachful; at our fourth and last, contained himself no longer. Yet the four cups were only equal to two ordinary black-coffee cups.

Possibly the priest thought age conferred privilege. He was also probably impulsive, and like all similar people often said and did the wrong thing. But he was evidently actuated by a pure spirit of philanthropy, which would set the world to rights if it could accomplish the impossible. Looking earnestly at us, he spoke, and then we found he was a Frenchman.

"Monsieur," he said in his own tongue, "that is a most insidious beverage, fatal to digestion, destructive to the nerves. If I see any one repeating the dose, at the risk of being thought indiscreet, I cannot avoid speaking. When I count up to the fourth cup, I feel they are in jeopardy. And shall I tell you why?—I speak from experience. I once myself was nearly overcome by the fatal basilisk, only that in my case it was strong waters without coffee more often than with it. For a time it was a question which should conquer, the tempter or the better nature. Then came a period in which I was wretched and miserable, yielding and fighting alternately. Finally, I made a greater effort, and vowed that if strength were given me to overcome, I would dedicate my life to the Church. Soon after that I fell ill; sick almost unto death. Weeks and months passed and I recovered to find the temptation vanished; hating the very sight of brandy, with coffee or without. Mindful of my vow—I was a young man at the time—I took steps to enter the Church; and here I am. And now, sir, forgive me for saying so much about myself, and for preaching a little sermon taken from real life, though time and place are perhaps not quite fitted to the occasion."

We forgave him on the spot. His intentions were excellent, his sympathies keen; two admirable qualities. We assured him that strong waters were no temptation, held no charm; yet twice four cups had been taken if needed.

The good priest shook his head doubtfully.

"A dangerous remedy, monsieur. But, now, I am interested in you. I like the amiable manner in which you have received my little homily. Many would take fire and proudly tell me to mind my own business. You arouse my sympathies and invite my confidence. Let me confess that I placed myself here to enter into conversation. Mine has been a singular life, both since I entered the Church and before it: full of lessons. If before retiring to-night you should have an hour to spare and will give it me, I will relate to you passages in a very eventful career. You will say it contains many marvels. However late, it will not be too late for me. I never retire to bed before three in the morning, and am always broad awake at seven. Four hours' sleep in the twenty-four is all nature ever accords me. I have reason to believe that I shall be offered the next vacant See in the Church: I could place my finger upon the very spot: and my wakeful nights will enable me to do much work. Let me hope that wisdom and judgment may be accorded. But what am I doing?" drawing himself up. "Talking as though I had known you for a lifetime; giving you my confidence, betraying my secrets! What power are you exercising? What does it mean? Sir, you must be a hypnotist, and I have fallen into your meshes. Yet, no; I feel I am not mesmerised, and you are to be trusted. Yes, I repeat that if you will give me an hour this evening, though it be the dead of night, I will confide strange experiences to your ear that until now have been locked within my own bosom. And why not? My life is my own; I have a right to withhold or disclose what pleases me."

The words of the priest made us almost uncomfortable. We aspired to no undue influence over any one, much less a stranger. Confidences are not always desirable; but then we reflected that confidences need not be confessions. The experiences even of a simple life must always be of use, how much more those of an active man of the world—thoughtful, observing, retentive and philosophical.

There was something unusually attractive about our priest. He possessed great refinement of face; a profile that reminded us of the fine outlines of Père Hyacinthe as we had many a time watched him in a Paris pulpit preaching with so much earnestness, fire and conviction, raising a crusade against the errors and shams both within and without the Church. When our present neighbour was a bishop, would he too uphold the good and condemn the evil?

We looked closely and thought Nature had not been unmindful of her power. As already stated, his long flowing hair was white; the head was splendidly developed; there was a ring and richness in the subdued voice that would reach the farthest corners of Notre Dame. We asked ourselves the question but could not answer it. The future holds her own secrets and makes no confidences. But strangely interested in Père Delormais—to make a slight but sufficient change in his name—we promised him an hour, two hours if he would, and even found ourselves awaiting the interview with curiosity and impatience. And this was the result of black coffee and brandy.

But all this took place on the second day. On the first night of our arrival we had needed neither one nor the other. The priest sat on the opposite side of the table, and we noticed nothing about him but his distinguished appearance and Benjamin's portions. Yet he evidently had been closely studying us. The Silent Enigma had occupied a little of our attention and wonder, but this soon passed away. The remainder of the scattered guests called for no remark whatever.

CHAPTER IV.
A NIGHT VISION.

Wrong turnings—H. C.'s gifts and graces—Out at night—The arcades of Gerona—At the fair—Ancient outlines—Demons at work—In the dry bed of the river—Roasting chestnuts—Medieval outlines—In the vortex—Clairvoyantes and lion-tamers—Clown's despair—Deserted streets—Vision of the night—Haunted staircase—Dark and dangerous—A small grievance—The reeds by the river—Cry of the watchmen—Hare and hounds—Fair Rosamund—Jacob's ladder—New rendering to old proverbs—Cathedral by night—H. C. oblivious—Scent fails—Return to earth—Romantic story—Last of a long line—El Sereno!—The witching hour—H. C. unserenaded—Next morning—Grey skies—A false prophet—Magic picture—Cathedral by day—Mediæval dreams.

DINNER ended we went to our rooms preparatory to investigating the town. These rooms were only reached through a labyrinth of passages, and to the last hour we were always taking wrong turnings. H. C. had the organ of locality as well as the gift of rhyme, and we often had to summon him from some distant chamber to the rescue; vainly remarking that it was a little hard all the talents should have fallen to his share. He would condescendingly reply that we must be thankful for small mercies; adding with great modesty that all his talents and graces, far beyond our ken, were counterbalanced by a feeling of tremendous responsibility.

We left the hotel with all our curiosity awakened. It was very dark. No stars were shining; a small aneroid indicated rain. Where we came to openings in the streets, the sky above was lighted with a lurid glare, reflection of the countless torches in the fair. Our own street was in comparative darkness.

Sauntering down whither fate would lead us, we came to some splendid arcades, deep, massive and solemn. Few towns in Spain possess such arcades as Gerona; so exceedingly picturesque and substantially built that time may mellow but hardly destroy them. To-night they were not quite impenetrable; a little of the glare from the sky or the fair—the latter unseen but near at hand—seemed to faintly light their obscurity and add mystery to the finely-arched outlines. They were deserted, not a creature was visible, the shops were closed. There is no time like night and darkness for solemn outlines and impressions.

A few steps farther on and we suddenly burst upon the full glory of the fair. Not the glory of the sun or moon, but of smoking torchlights and lurid flames carried hither and thither by the wind. We traced them far as the eye could reach. The houses, with their quaint outlines and iron balconies shadowed by the waving trees, stood out vividly. A double stream of people sauntered to and fro, treading upon each other's heels. At one booth a Dutch auction was going on—great attraction of the evening.

We stood on the bridge and looked quite far down upon the bed of the river. As our host had said, the water was very low. The stream had narrowed and half the bed was dry. Here and there huge fires were burning and flaming, and men danced round them, looking like demons as the flames now and then burst forth and lighted up their grim faces. They were roasting chestnuts, and as each batch was finished it was carried up to the fair to be quickly devoured by the boys and girls to-night supreme. Every dog has its day, and it was their turn to reign. They must make the most of it. To-morrow the garlands would fade. When the clock struck twelve Cinderella went back to her rags and chimney-corner. Black Monday always comes. Every stall displayed nothing but toys, from juvenile knives to slice off finger-ends to seductive-looking purses that were a mortifying reflection upon empty pockets.

As we stood on the bridge all this light and glare outlined the wonderful houses that rise up straight from the river so that its waters wash their foundations—and at very high tides come in at the ground-floor windows, a visitor more free than welcome. The occurrence is rare, but has been known. We could just trace the marvellous outlines; their strangely picturesque, old-world look: and we waited with patience for the morning and the splendours it should reveal.

Plunging boldly into the crowd, we were swallowed up in the vortex. It was rather bewildering. All the people seemed to do was to walk up and down in an endless stream, eat chestnuts and blow penny trumpets. To-night, at any rate, the stalls were almost neglected. Possibly they had not had time to digest the glamour, and to-morrow the harvest would come.

At the end of the long thoroughfare lights and stalls and crowd were left behind. We reached a quaint corner which cunningly led to another bridge. This we crossed and soon found ourselves in the wide market square and a different scene. Here the shows had taken up their abode, and every effort was being made to excite an unresponsive crowd. It was the usual thing. The learned pig, the two-headed lady, the gentleman who drew portraits with his feet, the clairvoyante who told fortunes and promised wealth and marriage, the lion-tamer who put his head into the lion's mouth, the enchanting ballet, where ladies and gentlemen pirouetted and made love in dumb motions: these attractions were faithfully described and freely offered to the dazzled multitude. In vain a clown tried to be facetious, shouted himself hoarse, and blew a trumpet until his face grew dark. Bells rang and drums beat—the crowd did not respond.

We left them to it, not tempted by the unseen. Our day for shows and illusions was over. This was not what we had expected of Gerona the beautiful and ancient. If we felt a slight grievance, who could wonder?

Presently we found ourselves in the darkness of night at the edge of the river. There was more water here, no dry bed visible. Away to the left, as far as one could gather, stretched the open country. Tall trees, sombre and mysterious, waved and rustled behind us. Evidently this was one of the public parks or promenades that exist just outside so many Spanish towns, refuges from the mid-day sun and evening glare; Elysian fields for those disembodied souls who pace to and fro to the music of love's young dream; vows of eternal fidelity more or less writ in sand.

The water looked cold and calm and tranquil. Rushes grew by the side and the wind whispered through them. Pan was playing his pipes. Lights twinkled from the windows of many a house down by the river. A lurid glow still hung in the sky, and beneath it, in front of us to the right, we traced the marvellous outlines of the town. Above all, crowning the heights, stretching heavenwards like mighty monsters, uprose the towers of the cathedral and other churches. Almost unearthly was the scene in its gloom and grandeur of mystery. Far down on the dry bed of the river the chestnut-roasters danced like demons about their holocausts. No clown need cry the virtues of their wares; the demand was equal to the supply, and both were unlimited.

We hardly knew how we found our way here or found it back again. Instinct guides one on these occasions and seldom fails as it failed in the midnight streets of Toledo. But a conjuror would be lost in those narrow wynds, which all resemble each other and are without plan or sequence.

To-night it was plainer sailing. Afar off we heard the clown bidding people to his feast of good things. Like the siren in stormy weather it told us which way to steer, what to avoid. We passed well on the outskirts of the gaping crowd and found ourselves on the bridge: the dark bridge, with the river flowing beneath, the houses rising in a great impenetrable mass, and the distant chestnut-roasters at their demon work.

The evening was growing old; a neighbouring church clock struck ten. This served to change the current of one's thoughts, which had simply drifted with the scene before us.

"Let us go to the cathedral," said H. C. "We shall then have two impressions instead of one. I always like to see an important building first at night. Next morning's view is so different that it becomes a revelation."

This was true enough; but how find our way to the cathedral and back again to the hotel? We had no desire to repeat that Toledo adventure. The story of the Babes in the Wood is only amusing to those who listen.

"Evidently a very different town from Toledo," replied H. C. "We have only to climb the height to reach the cathedral. Let us play Hare and Hounds. I will drop pieces of paper by way of scent. Or like Hop o' my Thumb scatter stones on the road."

"Wouldn't a silken thread be more poetical?"

"True; but," with a profound sigh, "there is no Fair Rosamund at the end of it. Here we can only worship the antique. Rosamund was not antique."

"But this has one great virtue; it can never disappoint or play you false. And, rare merit, its charms increase with age."

Again he sighed deeply. He had had many disappointments, but then he deserved them. Butterflies flit from flower to flower, until by-and-by they alight on a nettle and it stings: a little allegory always lost upon H. C. The gift of knowing themselves is still denied to mortals.

We left the bridge and found ourselves once more in the quaint octagonal corner; in front of us a narrow turning; a long flight of steps apparently without end; a Jacob's Ladder.

"Leading to Paradise," said H. C. "Let us take it."

"Would you be admitted with all those broken vows upon your conscience?"

The Oracle was silent. With a bold plunge we commenced the ascent: a rugged climb with dead walls about us; twistings and turnings and crooked ways and rough uneven steps; a veritable pilgrimage.

"Patience," said H. C. "Everything comes to him who climbs. I like to vary our proverbs; the old forms grow hackneyed."

As he spoke, we came upon a hidden turning to the left; short, straight, and evidently full of purpose. We took it without doubting and soon found ourselves in the open square, bound on one side by the cathedral with the Bishop's palace at right angles.

On this occasion no majestic outlines rewarded us. Only for its interior is the cathedral famous. All doors were locked and barred. We knocked for admission. These wonderful buildings should be open at night as well as by day, and some of their finest effects are lost by this tyrannical custom. But we knocked in vain; ghostly echoes answered us. Ghosts pass through doors; we never heard that the most accommodating ghost ever opened them to mortals. It was the great south doorway at which we appealed—the Apostles' Doorway—and in the darkness we could just trace its fine deeply-recessed arch. Above the cathedral rose its one solitary pagan tower, shadowy and unreal against the night sky.

A broad, magnificent, apparently endless flight of steps such as few cathedrals possess faced the west front. To-night we could see nothing beyond of the town and river, the great stretch of country and far-off Pyrenees we knew must be there. All this must wait for the morning. Nor should we have to wait long, for night and the moments were flying. The glare had died out of the sky; shows and booths had put out their lights; the crowd had gone home. Gerona might now truly be likened to a dead city.

No sound disturbed the stillness but the cry of the watchmen in different parts of the town. One proclaimed the time and weather and another took up the tale; sometimes a discordant duet rose upon the air. We heard it all distinctly from our citadel above the world.

As we looked, one of them passed in slow contemplation at the foot of the long flight of steps—steps nearly as broad as the cathedral itself. His staff struck the ground, his light flashed shadows upon the houses. The effect was weird. Heavy footsteps echoed right and left through the narrow streets, in fitting accompaniment to his monotonous chant. We had long grown familiar with these old watchmen, who come laden with an atmosphere of the past. They are in harmony with these towns of ancient outlines, suggesting days when perhaps the faintest glimmer of an oil lamp only made darkness more hideous; days when their office was no sinecure as now, but one of danger and responsibility.

The cathedral clock struck eleven, and when the last faint vibration had died upon the air we turned to go. It seemed a great many hours since we had risen in the darkness of the Narbonne misty morning, H. C. had been reawakened with a sort of volcanic eruption, and madame, wishing us bon voyage over our tea and hot rolls, had disappeared like a flash into the mist to put the final touches to her diner de noce.

"Now for Hare and Hounds, H. C. Lead the way."

"By the beard of Mahomet! I forgot all about it and have put none down."

"So the scent has failed?"

Remorse made him silent for a moment. Then he tried to turn the tables.

"After all, it was your fault. Your saying what you did about the silken thread and Fair Rosamund, set me thinking what a romantic adventure it would be if it could only come true. Naturally everything else went out of my mind."

"We must make the best of it, H. C., and get back to the hotel as we can. Suppose we vary the route. These steps look inviting; we will take them. All roads lead to Rome."

We went down the interminable flight, turned and looked back. A vision of a church in the clouds and a pagan tower that went out of sight. We had returned to earth, and not far off the old watchman was still awaking shadows and echoes in the narrow street. We could not do better than follow, and presently found ourselves in our quaint little octagonal corner. All was well.

The long thoroughfare, so crowded lately, was now forsaken. Stalls were shut down, lights were out. It was like a deserted banqueting-hall. The chestnut sellers had left their pans and baskets, but left them empty. From the bed of the river the dancing demons had departed, and the smoke of their incense still ascended from dying embers. Next came the old arcades, darker, lonelier, more mysterious than ever. These we knew faced our street, and turning our backs upon them we found ourselves in a few moments at the hotel.

Only a couple of old watchmen broke the solitude, meeting at their boundaries. They stood on the pavement in close converse and we wondered if they were hatching mischief; then they threw their light upon us and no doubt returned the compliment. We disappeared within the great doorway and left them to their reflections.

Up the broad staircase, the white marble glistening in the rays of the one electric lamp that still lighted up the courtyard. We thought of the sumptuous crowd that had passed up and down in the centuries gone by; fair dames in rustling silks and gay cavaliers with clanking swords; all the grandeur and gorgeousness of that once ducal palace. The staircase seemed haunted with ghosts and shadows, the murmur of voices, echo of laughter, weeping of tears.

And now, dim and vapoury, a brilliant pair appeared in tender proximity to each other. His arm encircled her waist, her fair white hand rested with fond appropriation upon his doublet. The love-look in her eyes was only equalled by the fervour and constancy of his. Yet sadness predominated, for it was a farewell interview. She was the last daughter of the ducal house, last of her race. They were betrothed and the course of true love had run smooth. But now he was bidden fight for his country and would depart at daybreak.

He never lived to return, but died on the battlefield. Within his gloved hand was found a golden tress tightly clasped, and next his heart a small miniature of his beautiful betrothed. Both were buried with him. She soon faded and declined, and found him again in a Land where wars and partings are unknown. House and name became extinct. As we thought of this, suddenly the staircase seemed full of sighs, lights grew dim.

We passed on and found the hotel empty and deserted. Every one had gone to bed and left the long gloomy corridors to silence and the ghosts. We lighted candles and H. C. led the way through the labyrinth to our rooms. Windows were open and the two old watchmen below were just where we had left them, apparently still gazing at the doorway through which we had disappeared.

"El sereno!" cried he. "Call your hours and guard the city. Enemies lurk in secret corners."

They looked up and wished us good night. We were not marauders after all. So they separated with easy conscience, and from opposite ends of the street we heard them announce the time and weather.

It was hardly necessary, for another watchman rang out with iron tongue. Midnight slowly tolled over the town from all the churches. Impossible to believe an hour had passed since we stood at the top of that vast flight of steps overlooking the darkness. How had we sauntered back? Where had the moments flown? One grows absorbed in these night visions, dark shadows and outlines, and time passes unconsciously. We counted the strokes, listened to the vibrations, and then H. C. went off to his own regions. The watchmen were all very well in their way, but for his part an open window and a love serenade—such as we had been favoured with in Toledo—had greater charms. To-night passionate appeals and the melody of the lute were sought in vain. Every window was closed and dark. We also said good-night to the sleeping world.

The next morning rose in due course, but not with promise. Heavy rain had fallen during the night, lowering clouds foretold more. Just now, however, they had proclaimed a truce.

We went out and felt that the grey sky was in harmony with the grey tones of the town. Nevertheless Spain essentially needs sunshine to bring out all its colouring and brilliancy. Under dark clouds it falls for the most part flat and dead, its finest effects lost.

"The rainy season has begun," said H. C. "We are in for a spell of wet weather. Generally it comes in September. This year it has obligingly put it off until November. My usual ill-luck."

"I fear it is so," said José our host's son, who, as we have said, volunteered to pilot us about the town and show forth its hidden wonders—delighted to air his French and give us Spanish lessons. "We have a weather-wise prophet who never was known to go wrong; a great meteorologist. He has just written to the papers to say we are to have a month's deluge."

A cheerful beginning. As it proved, they were all mistaken, but at the moment the skies seemed to confirm the tale. All the same we would not lose hope, which has brought many a sinking ship into harbour. So we put on a cheerful countenance, bid them take heart of grace and their umbrellas.

It would be invidious to enter, at the end of a chapter, upon the wonders of the town which met us at every step and turning; but we must record one experience before concluding. Let us close our eyes, take flight upwards and alight at the head of that vast stone staircase with our backs to the cathedral.

We see this morning what last night was veiled in darkness. The town lies chiefly to our left. We overlook a sea of red and grey roofs. To our right are the old walls with their gateways, round bastions and irregular outlines. Near to us is a church-tower, graceful, octagonal, excellent in design; but the upper part of its spire is gone and we can only imagine its once perfect beauty.

Low down beyond the town lies the river, winding through a picturesque country. We can even see the reeds and rushes that border its banks, but cannot hear their murmur as we did last night. If Pan still pipes it is to the pixies.

In the distance the Pyrenees are sleeping in graceful, long-drawn undulations. Nothing can be lovelier than their outlines. Some are snow-capped and stand out pure and white against the grey skies. A magic picture and we long to see it under sunshine. No wonder if Pan is silent.

We turn to the cathedral. No need to knock this morning. The great west doors are unlocked and we enter.

The first thing to strike us is an intense obscurity; a dim religious light deeper than we remember to have seen in any other sacred building. But to-day the grey skies have something to answer for in this matter. As the sight grows accustomed to the gloom, the next thing we notice is the vastness and splendour of the nave in which we stand: a single span seventy-three feet broad. No other church in Christendom can boast of such a nave. Light comes in from windows high up, filled in with rich stained glass. The tone of the walls and pillars is perfect, never having been touched with brush or knife; a rich subdued claret delighting the senses. Those great men of the Middle Ages made no mistakes. Nothing was admitted to disturb their love of harmony and proportion. They built wonders for the glory of their country and for all time: knew and recognised one thing only—the charm of perfection. Where they failed, their efforts were crippled; they were told to make bricks without straw.

Without waiting at this moment to examine the church more closely, we pass through a great doorway on the left and find ourselves in the cloisters.

Here too is a marvellous vision. Few cloisters in the world compare with them. The four sides are unequal, but this almost heightens their attraction. They have been little interfered with and are almost in their original state. The simple round arches rest on coupled pillars of marble, slender and graceful. The capitals are extremely rich, elaborate and delicate in their carving. Here Romanesque art seems to have been introduced into Spain through France. The cathedrals of Catalonia are of exceeding beauty and appear to have laid the foundation of mediæval Spanish art. This also, though they would deny it, is due to French influence—happily at that time at its best and purest.

In this wonderful cloister we lost ourselves in dreams of the Middle Ages, days which have glorified the earth, and appear almost as necessary to us as light and air. In the centre was an ancient well, without which no cloister seems perfect. Shrubs and trees embowered it, and the fresh green stood out in contrast with creamy walls and Romanesque arches.

At the end of the north passage we passed through an open porch to a view extensive and magnificent. A steep rugged descent led to the town. Below us was the ancient Benedictine church of San Pedro, with its Norman doorway and cloisters scarcely less wonderful than those we had just visited. Near it was a smaller, equally ancient church, now desecrated and turned into a carpenter's shop. We will pay it a visit by-and-by and make acquaintance with its sturdy owner, who passes his days and does his work under the very shadow of sanctity. Beyond all, on the brow of the hill outside the walls, we trace the ruins of the great castle and citadel that so nobly stood the siege of Gerona, until the twin spectres famine and disease stalked in hand in hand and conquered the brave defenders.

We gazed long upon all these historical landmarks, pointed out and explained by our guide-companion. Then turning back through the cloisters again found ourselves lost in visions of the past as we fell once more under the magic influence of the vast space and dim religious light of Gerona's splendid cathedral.

CHAPTER V.
GERONA THE BEAUTIFUL.

A Gerona señora—Grace and charm—Lord of creation—Morning greeting—Arcades and ancient houses—Conscription—Gerona a discovery—Streets of steps—Ancient eaves and rare ironwork—Old-world corner—Desecrated church—Gothic cloisters—Ghosts of the past—Visions of to-day—Soldiers interested—"Happy as kings"—Lingerings—Colonel seeks explanation—No lover of antiquity—More conscription—Dramatic scene—Pedro to the rescue—Mother and son—Sad story—Strong and merciful—Pedro grateful—Restricted interests—Colonel becomes impenetrable again.

LAST night we had found much to admire, though in the darkness the charms were only half seen. This morning on opening our window clouds hung low and threatening; yet the grey tone over all was in such singular harmony with the ancient city that we hardly regretted the gloomy skies.

Immediately opposite our casement was a small draper's shop presided over by an industrious feminine genius. She was up betimes and worked as though she had taken to heart all the proverbs of Solomon. A short, dark woman of the true Spanish type, bright, active, and not above all manner of work, for she swept her pavement diligently and arranged her wares; doing all with a certain natural grace that was not without its charm.

We thought her a young widow struggling for existence, but when all the work was done and everything was comfortably arranged, a husband appeared upon the scene; evidently a lord of creation who looked upon women, and especially wives, as born to labour. It was their portion under the sun. She had no doubt grown used to this state of things and accepted it as part of life's penances.

"I hope you have slept well," we heard her say with the slightest tinge of sarcasm—the street was so narrow as to bring them almost within half-a-dozen yards of us. "I have been up these two hours, whilst you were serenely unconscious," veiling her head in a graceful mantilla. "Yet you hardly seem refreshed," as he yawned lazily.

"Cara mia, you are an admirable woman and the best of wives. I admit that without your aid life would go hardly with me. But to you work is a pleasure, and I would not deprive you of it for the world."

By this time the mantilla was adjusted and the dark little woman swept good-temperedly out of the shop. The prettiest of small feet tripped on to the pavement. She looked up, saw us gazing in her direction, and her smile disclosed the whitest of teeth.

"Ah, señor, you have heard our conjugal Good-morning. It is always the same. Fate has been hard upon us women. The weaker vessel, we get terribly imposed upon by our masters. Now I go to church to pray for a blessing upon my work and reformation to my lord. Not that he is bad or unkind or tyrannical, as husbands go—only incorrigibly lazy. Oh, you know it is true, Stefano."

Upon which the little lady—she was quite lady-like in spite of swept pavement and hard work—made us a court-curtsey, flourished a farewell to her caro sposo, and passed swiftly and gracefully down the street. It is said that only Spanish women know how to walk, and there is some truth in the proverb.

Rain had fallen heavily during the night, as the watchmen reported through the small hours. It had ceased—with a promise of more to come. Remembering the proverb we took umbrellas. H. C. shouldered his and put on his military manner. The town indeed, quiet as it was, seemed full of a military atmosphere, for conscription was still going on and we presently came upon the official scene.

We had gone out without our amiable guide to wander at will and let chance take us whither it would. In the light of day the arcades seemed deeper, more massive, more picturesque even than last night. Standing on the bridge we looked down upon the dry bed of the river far below. The altars of the chestnut-roasters were cold and dead; the demons absent. But even at that moment there came down a small band of them to rake out fires and prepare for action.

The ancient houses on either side make this view from the bridge one of the most remarkable in the world. These rose straight from the river-bed, and where water still ran their outlines were reflected: houses looking old enough to date from the days of the deluge: a huge mass once white, now yellow, brown and black with weather and age. All the windows seemed to have been taken out, resulting in that curious air of unglazed wreck and ruin so often seen in warm latitudes. Countless balconies adorned with flowers and coloured draperies hung over the water. Above all rose the outlines of the cathedral and other churches in the background with striking effect. The distant view was closed in by the winding river, where the houses on both sides appeared to join hands. Just beyond this we had stood last night listening to the rustling of the reeds, lost in the scene so vividly reflected by the lurid glare of the torches.

People were gradually waking up and opening their stalls. All down the long thoroughfare were more ancient and massive arcades, hardly noticed last night in the restless crowd. In this country par excellence of arcades we had never seen such as these.

"Gerona is a discovery," said H. C. for the twentieth time. "The view from this bridge is something to dream about. Yet one longs for sunshine and lights and shadows. Remarkable as the scene is, it is a study in grey. We want contrast."

But the town had more wonders in reserve, when presently our host's son joined us and pointed out the hidden treasures of the narrow tortuous streets. Houses with gabled ends, tiled roofs and windows ornamented with magnificent wrought ironwork; the true tone of antiquity over all—as yet unspoilt. Gerona, in its dying prosperity, has, like Segovia, escaped the ravages of the restorer. Its substantial mansions are firm and steadfast as in the far gone Middle Ages.

The irregularities of the place add to its charm. Built on rising ground, the streets are a pilgrimage of rough, uneven, picturesque steps. From these, narrow openings lead into many a cul-de-sac crowded with ancient outlines that are nothing less than artistic dreams.

We soon came to one of these ascending streets with its endless flight. Far up, it was crowned by a church with a solitary square tower and a Renaissance west front. Houses on either side had wonderful ironwork windows; we cannot help reverting to this special feature; and many a gothic casement was rich in the remains of refined tracery and ornamented balconies; whilst from the deep overhanging eaves quaint waterspouts here and there craned their long necks like gargoyles of some ancient cathedral. Reaching the church and turning to the right down a narrow passage between high dead walls we found ourselves in an excited scene: no less than the building given up to the rites of conscription. The spot and its surroundings was one of the most picturesque in Gerona. A long, broad flight of steps led up to an ancient church now desecrated and turned into barracks. Groups of young soldiers were clustered together and sentinels paced to and fro. To the left, facing the long flight, low ancient houses wonderful in tone and construction were decorated with wrought ironwork windows, some of them almost Moorish in design, the upper floors terminating in round open arcades and tiled roofs with projecting eaves; one of those old-world bits only to be seen in these mediæval towns of Spain.

We climbed the steps and braved the sentinel, feeling there must or ought to be hidden cloisters attached to this old church of which nothing remained but the west front. But we were not to pass unchallenged. An inner sentry came up and asked our business. Hearing that we wished to see the cloisters, he beckoned to a further sentry who evidently belonged to the colonel or commandant of the regiment. Permission was soon brought, and pointing out the way, we were left to our own devices.

Instinct had not failed us. In a few moments we were standing in the midst of large lovely old cloisters with Gothic arcades resting on slender coupled marble columns. Above these rose a gallery of round arcades supported by single pillars with carved capitals, the arches, wider and more open than the pointed arches beneath them, presenting a fine contrast. A deep archway reached by some half-dozen steps led through the palace to the east end of the cathedral and the town walls beyond. In the square in front of palace and cathedral was an ancient and beautiful well. Above these again a slanting tiled roof fitly crowned the scene.

Here in days gone by monks and priests had paced the silent corridors. A sacred atmosphere in which the world had no part hung over all. Father-confessors listened to the secret struggles of young novices who hoped to leave the vanities and temptations of life outside the walls of their cells, only to find that in this state of probation conflict can never cease. So confessions were made and penances exacted, and soft footsteps and pale faces haunted those quiet cloisters. Large dark eyes—larger and darker for the sunk cheeks—gazed upwards at the sky that canopied the quadrangle with such divine peace, vainly seeking a clue to the mysteries of existence.

To-day all was changed. The cloisters were still militant, but in quite another way. All the ancient serenity and repose had departed and the beauty of outline alone remained. Soldiers and recruits in every stage of undress went about in restless activity.

In the upper gallery some were making or mending clothes, others drawing from the well in what was once the cloister garden. It was still ornamented with its fine old ironwork. Monks and priests once looked down and saw pale, cowled faces reflected in the calm water; and perhaps as they drew it to the surface there came a vision of another well in a far-off land and a certain woman of Samaria. No such vision troubled the five or six closely-cropped soldiers, whose reflected images below had nothing saintly, troubled or questioning about them. These rough specimens of an undersized, undisciplined army were out of all harmony with the ancient outlines that nothing could deprive of their beauty and refinement.

We felt the charm and incongruity of it all. The men crowded within a few yards of us, delighted at being taken by the small camera, interested at finding themselves reflected on the object glass, unhappy that we could not there and then present each with a photograph duly printed and mounted. Such a machine surely performed miracles.

"You all look very happy," H. C. remarked, for more carelessly contented faces were never seen—a mixture of types good and bad.

"As happy as kings," they answered. "We eat, drink and sleep well. Clothes and lodging are found us and we never have any fighting to do. We should like a little more money for tobacco—but one can't have everything."