its beautiful women so
justly famous, and, underneath its Provencal gaieties, their classic
origins may easily be traced. One should see the Roman Theatre, the
solitary Aliscamps, by moonlight, the busy market in the early day,
the Cathedral at a Mass, and a fete at any time,--for

"When the fete-days come, farewell the swath and labour,
And welcome revels underneath the trees,
And orgies in the vaulted hostelries,
Bull-baitings, never-ending dances, and sweet pleasures."

[Sidenote: Entrevaux.]

The most celebrated fortified town in France is the Cite of Carcassonne,
yet, even in the days of its practical strength, it was scarcely a type.
It was rather a marvel, a wonder,--the "fairest Maid of Languedoc," "the
Invincible." And now the citadel is almost deserted. The inhabitants are
so few that weeds grow in their streets, and one who walks there in the
still mid-day feels that all this completion of architecture, these
walls, perfect in every stone, may be an enchanted vision, a mirage; he
more than half believes that the cool of the sunset will dispel the
illusion, and he will find himself on a pleasant little hill of
Languedoc, looking down upon the commonplace "Lower City" of
Carcassonne.

At Entrevaux there is no suggestion of illusion. This is not a
show-place that once was real; it is one of a hundred little
agglomerations of the French Middle Ages. They had no great name to
uphold; no riches to expend in impregnable walls and towers. They clung
fearfully together for self-preservation, built ramparts that were as
strong as might be, and dared not laugh at the "fortunes of war." Except
that there is safety outside the walls, and a tiny post and telegraph
office within, they are now as they were in those dangerous days. The
fortress of Carcassonne is dead; but in the back country of Provence,
Entrevaux is living, and scarcely a jot or tittle of its Mediaevalism is
lost. Among high rocks that close around it on every side, where,
according to the season, the Chalvagne trickles or plunges into the
river Var, and dominated by a fort that perches on a sharp peak, is the
strangest of old Provencal towns.

[Illustration: THE GOTHIC WALK, CLOISTER.--ARLES.]

The founding of the tiny episcopal city was after this wise. Toward the
close of the XIV century, in a time of plagues, Jewish persecutions, the
growth of heresies, and the uncurbed ravages of free-booters, the city
of Glandeves, seat of