During
half an hour I did not see the young men measure once. The winning throw
was every time unmistakable.

The Artist leaned against the chateau wall, putting it down. The thought
of Mademoiselle Simone, playing the organ, came to me. How was the music
going? I must not miss that service. The view and the chateau and the
_jeu aux boules_ no longer held me. Down the steps I went, and entered
the first of the church doors. It was on the upper level, and took me
into the gallery; I was surprised to find so large a church. One got no
idea of its size from the outside.

The daylight was all from above. Although only mid-afternoon, altar and
chancel candles made a true vesper atmosphere, and the flickering wicks
in the hanging lamps gave starlight. This is as it should be. The
appeal of a ritualistic service is to the mystical in one's nature.
Jewels and embroideries, gold and silver, gorgeous robes, rich
decorations, pomp and splendor repel in broad daylight; candles and lamps
sputter futilely; incense nauseates: for the still small voice is
stifled, and the kingdom is of this world. But in the twilight, what
skeptic, what Puritan resists the call to worship of the Catholic ritual?
I had come in time for the intercessory visit to the stations of the
cross. Priest and acolytes were following the crucifix from the chancel.
Banners waved. Before each station the procession stopped, the priest
and acolytes knelt solemnly (with bowed heads) and prayers were said.
While the procession was passing from station to station, the girls sang
their hymn in French. It was the age old pageantry of the Catholic
church, a pageantry that perhaps indicates an age old temperamental
difference between the Latin and the Anglo Saxon.

When the service was over, I went around to the door under the tower. Of
course, it was to meet the _abbe_. Still, when I realize that I had
missed the organist, I was disappointed. The _abbe_ soon appeared from
the sacristy. I gave one more look around for Mademoiselle Simone while
he was explaining that he had just twenty minutes before it was necessary
to start down to the other church, but that it was long enough to take me
through the Moorish quarter. Although I had come to Cagnes to see the
old town, and to get into the atmosphere of past centuries, I must
confess that I followed him regretfully.

The houses of the Moorish quarter are built into the ancient city walls.
Baked earth, m