It was very curious, very interesting; above all, it was very pictorial, and involved perpetual peeps into the little crooked, crumbling, sunny, grassy, empty Cite.  In places, as you stand upon it, the great towered and embattled enceinte produces an illusion; it looks as if it were still equipped and defended.  One vivid challenge, at any rate, it flings down before you; it calls upon you to make up your mind on the matter of restoration.  For myself, I have no hesitation; I prefer in every case the ruined, however ruined, to the reconstructed, however splendid.  What is left is more precious than what is added; the one is history, the other is fiction; and I like the former the better of the two—­it is so much more romantic.  One is positive, so far as it goes; the other fills up the void with things more dead than the void itself, inasmuch as they have never had life.  After that I am free to say that the restoration of Carcassonne is a splendid achievement.  The little custodian dismissed us at last, after having, as usual, inducted us into the inevitable repository of photographs.

After leaving it and passing out of the two circles of walls, I treated myself, in the most infatuated manner, to another walk round the Cite.  It is certainly this general impression that is most striking—­the impression from outside, where the whole place detaches itself at once from the landscape.  In the warm southern dusk it looked more than ever like a city in a fairy-tale.  To make the thing perfect, a white young moon, in its first quarter, came out and hung just over the dark silhouette.  It was hard to come away—­to incommode one’s self for anything so vulgar as a railway train; I would gladly have spent the evening in revolving round the walls of Carcassonne.

BIARRITZ[A]

[Footnote A:  From “Castles and Chateaux of Old Navarre.”  By special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, L.C.  Page & Co.  Copyright, 1907.]

BY FRANCIS MILTOUN

If Bayonne is the center of commercial affairs for the Basque country, its citizens must, at any rate, go to Biarritz if they want to live “the elegant and worldly life.”  The prosperity and luxury of Biarritz are very recent; it goes back only to the Second Empire, when it was but a village of a thousand souls or less, mostly fishermen and women.

The railway and the automobile omnibus make communication with Bayonne to-day easy, but formerly folk came and went on a donkey side-saddled for two, arranged back to back, like the seats of an Irish jaunting-car.  If the weight were unequal, a balance was struck by adding cobblestones on one side or the other, the patient donkey not minding in the least.

This astonishing mode of conveyance was known as a “cacolet,” and replaced the “voitures” and “fiacres” of other resorts.  An occasional example may still be seen, but the “jolies Basquaises” who conducted them have given way to sturdy, barelegged Basque boys—­as picturesque, perhaps, but not so entrancing to the view.  To voyage “en cacolet” was the necessity of our grandfathers; for us it is an amusement only.