gholds. Perhaps to reconcile the irreconcilable,
crenellations joining the towers were placed over the rose-window, and
at either end of the portal, a few inches of Gothic carving were cut in
the tower-wall. The result is frank incongruity. And the traveller left
without regret, to look at the apse. It cannot be denied that the
clock-tower which comes into view is very square and thick; but in spite
of that it has a simple dignity, and as the apse itself is not florid,
this proved to be the really pleasing detailed view of the Cathedral.
The open square behind the church is tiny, and there one can best see
the curious grilled iron-work, which in the times of mediaeval outbreaks
protected the fine windows of the choir and preserved them for future
generations of worshippers and admirers. It was after noon when the
traveller finished his investigations of Saint-Nazaire; and as the
southern churches close between twelve and two, he took dejeuner at a
little cafe near-by and patiently waited for the hour of re-opening. Had
there been nothing but the interior to explore, he could not have spent
two hours in such contented waiting. But there was a Cloister,--and on
the stroke of two he and the sacristan met before the portal.

[Illustration: "THE CLOCK-TOWER IS VERY SQUARE AND THICK."--BEZIERS.]

In describing their "monuments," French guide-books confine themselves
to facts, and the adjectives "fine" and "remarkable"; they are almost
always strictly impersonal, and the traveller who uses them as a
cicerone, has a sense of unexpected discovery, a peculiar elation, in
finding a monument of rare beauty; but he is never subjected to that
disappointed irritation which comes when one stands before the
"monument" and feels that one's expectations have been unduly
stimulated. The Cloister of Beziers is a "fine monument," but as he
walked about it, the traveller felt no sense of elation. He found a
small Cloister, Gothic like the Cathedral, with clustered columns and
little ornamentation. It was not very completely restored, and had a
sad, melancholy charm, like a solitary sprig of lavender in an old
press, or a rose-leaf between the pages of a worn and forgotten Missal.
In the Cloister-close, stands a Gothic fountain; but the days when its
waters dropped and tinkled in the stillness, when their sound mingled
with the murmured prayers and slow steps of the priests,--those days are
long forgotten. The quaint and pretty fountain is now