e.

"I have seen, in the Sahara, Lake Raianechergui, fifty kilometers long,
shining under a moon as brilliant as our sun and breathing up toward it
a white cloud, like a mist of milk.

"I have seen, in the Lipari Islands, the weird sulphur crater of the
Volcanello, a giant flower which smokes and burns, an enormous yellow
flower, opening out in the midst of the sea, whose stem is a volcano.

"But I have seen nothing more wonderful than Antibes, standing against
the Alps in the setting sun.

"And I know not how it is that memories of antiquity haunt me; verses of
Homer come into my mind; this is a city of the ancient East, a city of
the odyssey; this is Troy, although Troy was very far from the sea."

M. Martini drew the Sarty guide-book out of his pocket and read: "This
city was originally a colony founded by the Phocians of Marseilles,
about 340 B.C. They gave it the Greek name of Antipolis, meaning
counter-city, city opposite another, because it is in fact opposite to
Nice, another colony from Marseilles.

"After the Gauls were conquered, the Romans turned Antibes into
a municipal city, its inhabitants receiving the rights of Roman
citizenship.

"We know by an epigram of Martial that at this time----"

I interrupted him:

"I don't care what she was. I tell you that I see down there a city of
the Odyssey. The coast of Asia and the coast of Europe resemble each
other in their shores, and there is no city on the other coast of the
Mediterranean which awakens in me the memories of the heroic age as this
one does."

A footstep caused me to turn my head; a woman, a large, dark woman, was
walking along the road which skirts the sea in going to the cape.

"That is Madame Parisse, you know," muttered Monsieur Martini, dwelling
on the final syllable.

No, I did not know, but that name, mentioned carelessly, that name of
the Trojan shepherd, confirmed me in my dream.

However, I asked: "Who is this Madame Parisse?"

He seemed astonished that I did not know the story.

I assured him that I did not know it, and I looked after the woman,
who passed by without seeing us, dreaming, walking with steady and slow
step, as doubtless the ladies of old walked.

She was perhaps thirty-five years old and still very beautiful, though a
trifle stout.

And Monsieur Martini told me the following story:

Mademoiselle Combelombe was married, one year before the war of 1870, to
Monsieur Parisse, a government official. She was