S."--RIEZ.]

Wandering across the fields, with the re-constructive mania strong upon
him, the traveller came across the beautiful granite columns which with
their capitals, bases, and architraves of marble, are the last standing
monument of Riez's Roman greatness. Fragments of sculpture, bits of
stone set in her walls, exist in numbers; but they are too isolated, too
vague, to suggest the lost beauty and grandeur which these lonely
columns express. He gazed at them in wonder. Was he stepping where once
had been a grand and busy Forum, was he looking at the Temple of some
great Roman god? The voices of the threshers sounded cheerily, the
Provencal sun shone bright and warm, but one of the greatest of
mysteries was before him,--the silent mystery of a dead past that had
once been a living present. He sat by the river, and tossed pebbles into
its shallow waters; the slanting rays of the sun gave the columns
delicate tints, old yellows and greys and violets, and at length, as
evening fell, they seemed to grow higher and whiter in the paler light,
until they looked like lonely funereal shafts, recalling to the memory
of forgetful man, Riez's long-dead greatness.

[Sidenote: Senez.]

In the comfortable civilisation of France, the stage-coach usually
begins where the railroad ends; and however remote a destination or
tedious a journey, an ultimate and safe arrival is reasonably certain.
This was the reflection which cheered the traveller when he began to
search for Senez, an ancient city of the Romans which was christianised
in the early centuries and enjoyed the rank of Bishopric until the
Revolution of '89. In spite of this dignified rank and the tenacity of
an ancient foundation, it lies so far from modern ken that even worthies
who live fifty miles away could only say that "Senez is not much of a
place, but it doubtless may be found ten--perhaps fifteen--or even
twenty kilometres behind the railroad."

"If Monsieur alighted at Barreme, probably the mail for Senez would be
left there too. And where letters go, some man or beast must carry
them, and one could always follow."

With these vague directions, the traveller set gaily out for Barreme,
where a greater than he had spent one bleak March night on the anxious
journey from Elba to Paris. The town shows no trace of Napoleon's
hurried visit. It looks a mere sleepy hamlet, and when the traveller
left the train he had already decided to push his journey onward.

"To