CHAPTER XXIII

He was an incomparable companion, perfectly amiable, yet vivid, and eager as a child, always interested and interesting.  We awoke at Avignon and went out in pyjamas and overcoats to stretch our legs and get a bowl of coffee on the platform in the pearly grey light of early morning.  After coffee and cigarettes he led the way to the other end of the platform, that we might catch a glimpse of the town wall which, though terribly restored, yet, when seen from a distance, transports one back five hundred years to the age of chivalry.

“How I should have loved to be a troubadour, or a trouvere, Frank; that was my true metier, to travel from castle to castle singing love songs and telling romantic stories to while away the tedium of the lives of the great.  Fancy the reception they would have given me for bringing a new joy into their castled isolation, new ideas, new passions—­a breath of gossip and scandal from the outside world to relieve the intolerable boredom of the middle ages.  I should have been kept at the Court of Aix:  I think they would have bound me with flower-chains, and my fame would have spread all through the sunny vineyards and grey olive-clad hills of Provence.”

When we got into the train again he began: 

“We stop next at Marseilles, don’t we, Frank?  A great historic town for nearly three thousand years.  One really feels a barbarian in comparison, and yet all I know of Marseilles is that it is famous for bouillabaisse.  Suppose we stop and get some?”

“Bouillabaisse,” I replied, “is not peculiar to Marseilles or the Rue Cannebiere.  You can get it all along this coast.  There is only one thing necessary to it and that is rascasse, a fish caught only among the rocks:  you will get excellent bouillabaisse at lunch where we are going.”

“Where are we going?  You have not told me yet.”

“It is for you to decide,” I answered.  “If you want perfect quiet there are two places in the Esterel mountains, Agay and La Napoule.  Agay is in the middle of the Esterel.  You would be absolutely alone there except for the visit of an occasional French painter.  La Napoule is eight or ten miles from Cannes, so that you are within reach of a town and its amusements.  There is still another place I had thought of, quieter than either, in the mountains behind Nice.”

“Nice sounds wonderful, Frank, but I should meet too many English people there who would know me, and they are horribly rude.  I think we will choose La Napoule.”

About ten o’clock we got out at La Napoule and installed ourselves in the little hotel, taking up three of the best rooms on the second or top floor, much to the delight of the landlord.  At twelve we had breakfast under a big umbrella in the open air, looking over the sea.  I had put the landlord on his mettle, and he gave us a fry of little red mullet, which made us understand how tasteless whitebait are:  then a plain beefsteak aux pommes, a morsel of cheese, and a sweet omelette.  We both agreed that we had had a most excellent breakfast.  The coffee left a good deal to be desired, and there was no champagne on the list fit to drink; but both these faults could be remedied by the morrow, and were remedied.