see_ of coming up for us with an umbrella which certainly belonged,
in former ages, to one of the Stephanettes or Berangeres commemorated by
M. Canonge. His oven, I am afraid, was cold so long as our visit lasted.
When the rain was over we wandered down to the little disencumbered
space before the inn, through a small labyrinth of obliterated things.
They took the form of narrow, precipitous streets bordered by empty
houses with gaping windows and absent doors, through which we had
glimpses of sculptured chimney-pieces and fragments of stately arch and
vault. Some of the houses are still inhabited, but most of them are open
to the air and weather. Some of them have completely collapsed; others
present to the street a front which enables one to judge of the
physiognomy of Les Baux in the days of its importance. This importance
had pretty well passed away in the early part of the sixteenth century,
when the place ceased to be an independent principality. It became--by
bequest of one of its lords, Bernardin des Baux, a great captain of his
time--part of the appanage of the kings of France, by whom it was placed
under the protection of Arles, which had formerly occupied with regard
to it a different position. I know not whether the Arlesians neglected
their trust, but the extinction of the sturdy little stronghold is too
complete not to have begun long ago. Its memories are buried under its
ponderous stones. As we drove away from it in the gloaming my friend and
I agreed that the two or three hours we had spent there were among the
happiest impressions of a pair of tourists very curious of the
picturesque. We almost forgot that we were bound to regret that the
shortened day left us no time to drive five miles farther, above a pass
in the little mountains--it had beckoned to us in the morning, when we
came in sight of it, almost irresistibly--to see the Roman arch and
mausoleum of Saint Remy. To compass this larger excursion (including the
visit to Les Baux) you must start from Arles very early in the morning;
but I can imagine no more delightful day.

[Illustration]

Chapter xxxiii

[Avignon]

I had been twice at Avignon before, and yet I was not satisfied. I
probably am satisfied now; nevertheless I enjoyed my third visit. I
shall not soon forget the first, on which a particular emotion set an
indelible stamp. I was creeping northward, in 1870, after four months
spent, for the first time, in Italy. It was the m