THE BEAUTIES OF FRANCE 



455 



ors from one end of the spectrum to the 

 other. It -is a blue shore — aye, and an 

 emerald, and red, and black, and brown, 

 and gray. 



At Hyeres its sensuous charm first be- 

 comes apparent in foliage and climate 

 and color — and you remember the violets 

 the street arabs sell in Paris at Easter. 

 The flashing Gulf of St. Tropez, with its 

 high shores and vivid colors — red cliffs, 

 astonishing villas, with majolica tiled 

 walls in every conceivable barbarity of 

 color - combinations, emerald sea and 

 white foam — is a dazzling prelude to 

 Roman Frejus, with its dull brick ruins 

 of the days of the conquering Caesars 

 and its medieval houses, with wonder- 

 fully carved doors and portals. Cannes, 

 the "Millionaires' Paradise," with its an- 

 cient fishing town on the long promon- 

 tory at one side, surmounted by the gaunt 

 old Tower of the Chevalier, and the new, 

 fashionable section of magnificent hotels, 

 villas, and gardens, shows how every- 

 thing else can give place to sheer beauty 

 and charm. 



Of all the captivating spots along the 

 Riviera' there is none lovelier than the 

 little island of St. Honorat, just off 

 Cannes. At one edge, rising from the 

 green water like a great square shaft of 

 glowing amber against the warm south- 

 ern blue, is the battlemented convent- 

 fortress the monks of old built as a ref- 

 uge against the Barbary corsairs — a pile 

 stern and militant without, but within a 

 monastery, with a two-storied cloister of 

 remarkable beauty even in its ruin. And 

 at harvest time the few monks who still 

 inhabit the island give from a distance 

 an old-world picture of women haying, 

 their long black robes pinned up, their 

 heads hidden in big, floppy farmer hats. 

 Beyond "the meadows sweet with hay" 

 the ground is all one deep, soft, aromatic 

 bed of brown pine needles, and the old 

 trees bend lovingly over to caress the 

 shining water (see page 453). 



NICE, THE popular 



Nice, the popular, drowsing along the 

 magnificent Baie des Anges ; Monaco, 

 the rock, jutting forth like a great head, 

 with its touseled hair full of flowers ; 

 Monte Carlo, on its superb hill, with the 



gambling casino, poised midway between 

 sea and sky, in a garden which is a riot 

 of almost tropical luxuriance and daz- 

 zling color; Mentone, of the soft tints 

 and mild, perfumed airs, are only sug- 

 gestions of the scenery through which 

 the Grande Corniche road winds for mile 

 upon mile of beauty that only a catalogue 

 can render. 



There are towns here all garden ; 

 others all rock, perched precariously 

 under their towers within high walls 

 upon a spike of hill, where space is too 

 precious for anything but tenement-like 

 dwellings, and a single, narrow, twisting 

 road leading down to the world ; and still 

 others, like Antibes, jammed together on 

 the beach, buttressed house upon house 

 holding hands, as it were. At Antibes, 

 too, a little cape thrusts out into the sea, 

 solidly overgrown with daisies, a vast 

 white and gold finger, like a huge streak 

 of foam upon the waters. 



HEART OP THE PERPUME INDUSTRY 



But all the beauty is not along the 

 coast. A few miles inland, at Grasse, 

 the French perfume industry has built 

 up flower plantations 1,000 feet above 

 the sea and turned the whole countryside 

 into solid masses of flowers — jasmine, 

 roses, violets, orange blossoms, tube- 

 roses, pinks — more than 12,000 acres of 

 them, raised to be destroyed in the distil- 

 leries which have transformed ancient 

 convents into factories whose very smoke 

 smells sweet (see page 472). 



Grasse itself has its feet in these won- 

 derful gardens, and climbs laboriously 

 up the terraced hill until its towered head 

 rises clear — a town of villas so smoth- 

 ered in cascades of flowers and palms, 

 aloes and oleanders and cactus that often 

 the houses are invisible from the street. 



To the east of Grasse, the narrow-gauge 

 line of the little Sud Railway plunges 

 recklessly over terrifying gorges on 

 heaven-high viaducts that twist them- 

 selves nearly double to get across the 

 ferocious chasms, full of distorted rock 

 shapes and unearthly noises. Le Baou, 

 a towering crag like Gibraltar, looms 

 above the miniature town of St. Jeannet, 

 a threatening monster. 



