e would have put arms on the Venus de Milo! As we stood there, a
guide came up and began to tell us the history of the tower. We moved
over to the terrace. From Montboron to Bordighera the Riviera lay
below us, a panorama which commanded silence. Up came the guide
fellow, and started to name each place.

"I am about to commit murder," I cried.

"I'll save you the bother by telling him to chase himself with this
franc," said the Artist, pulling out the coin. "If only the restorer
of the Tower of Augustus were around, he'd come in for a franc too."

La Turbie is not a town to hurry away from after lunch. Its old
gateways and leaning houses brought out the Artist's pencil. I tried
to explore the paths up the Tete du Chien. _Defense de penetrer_--and
then selections from the Code about how spies are treated. The same
fate met me on the Mont de la Bataille. France may love Italy just
now--but she is taking no chances! As far as I could judge, every high
slope was fortified. I had tea at one of the hotels perched above the
town, counted my money, and suggested to the Artist that we slip down
to Monte Carlo for the night.

The next morning we took the little railway back to La Turbie and
continued our walk. From La Turbie the Grande Corniche makes a gradual
descent behind the principality of Monaco to Cabbe-Roquebrune, and
joins the Petite Corniche at Cap Martin. Three miles farther on the
Promenade du Midi leads into Menton. This is the most beautiful
stretch of the Grande Corniche; and it is paralleled by no other road,
as the new Moyenne Corniche ends at Monte Carlo. The view is before
you as you go down. The vegetation becomes more tropical. You are
nearer the sea, and the feeling of _dolce far niente_ gets into your
bones as you approach Cap Martin.

Mont Agel's limestone side gives you back the heat of the sun. It is a
radiator. No wonder lemons flower all the year round, and you discover
on the same tree buds, flowers, green and yellow fruit. No wonder the
palms are not out of their setting as at Cannes and Nice. Locusts,
flourishing where there is seemingly no ground to take root in, live
from the air, and give forth pods that almost hide the leaves in their
profusion. The undergrowth of myrtle and dwarf ilex above becomes
aloes and sarsaparilla and wild asparagus as we go down to the sea. We
have left the cypresses and cork-trees, and eucalyptus struggles in our
nostrils with orange and le