ded me.

"M. l'Abbe, it is time for the service," she said firmly. "If this
_Anglais_ comes in, he will see that I have reason."

She disappeared. The _abbe_ looked after her indulgently, shrugged his
shoulders, with the palms of his hands spread heavenward, and followed
her.

In the meantime the worshipers, practically all of them women and
children, had been turning corners above and below. I made the round of
the group of buildings, and saw only little doors here and there at
different levels. There was no portal, no large main entrance. When I
came back to the bend of the road, the music had started. I was about to
enter the tower door--Mademoiselle Simone's!--when I saw the Artist put
up his pencil. The service would last for some time, so I joined him,
and we continued to mount.

Above the church tower, steps led to the very top of the hill, which was
crowned by a chateau. Skirting its walls, we came to an open place. On
the side of the hill looking towards the Alps, a spacious terrace had
been built out far beyond the chateau wall. Along the parapet were a
number of primitive tables and benches. The tiny cafe from which they
were served was at the end of a group of nondescript buildings that had
probably grown up on a ruined bastion of the chateau. Seated at one of
these tables, you see the Mediterranean from Nice to Antibes, with an
occasional steamer and a frequent sailing-vessel, the Vintimille _rapide_
(noting its speed by the white engine smoke), one tramway climbing by
Villeneuve-Loubet towards Grasse and another by Saint-Paul-du-Var to
Vence, and more than a semi-circle of the horizon lost in the Alps.

The Sunday afternoon animation in the _place_ was wholly masculine. No
woman was visible except the white-coiffed grandmother who served the
drinks. The war was not the only cause of the necessity of Mademoiselle
Simone's opposition to antiphonal Gregorian singing. I fear that the
lack of male voices in the vesper service is a chronic one, and that
Mademoiselle Simone's attempt to put life into the service would have
been equally justifiable before the tragic period of _la guerre_. For
the men of Cagnes were engrossed in the favorite sport of the Midi, _jeu
aux boules_. I have never seen a more serious group of Tartarins. From
Monsieur le Maire to cobbler and blacksmith, all were working very hard.
A little ball that could be covered in one's fist is thrown out on the
common by the wi