ey to make, and the
hour of departure is one-thirty. If it is not too long--fifteen minutes
at the most." He pocketed the franc less reluctantly than he had spoken.

The soldier crossed the boulevard with me. Knowing how to appreciate a
good thing, he became our ally as soon as he had looked at the first
lines of the sketch. When the minutes passed, and the soldier saw that
the driver was growing restless, he went back and persuaded him to come
over and have a look at the drawing. This enabled me to get the driver
tabled before a tall glass of steaming coffee with a _petit verre_.

Soon an old dame, wearing a bonnet that antedated the coach, stuck out
her head. A watch was in her hand. Surely she was not of the Midi.
Fearing that she might influence the driver disadvantageously to our
interests, I went to inform her that the delay was unavoidable. I could
not offer her a cigar. There are never any bonbons in my pocket. So I
thought to make a speech.

"All my excuses," I explained, "for this regrettable delay. The coach in
which you are seated--and in which in a very, very few minutes you will
be riding--belongs to the generation before yourself and me. It is
important for the sake of history as well as art that the presence in
Grasse of my illustrious artist friend, coincident with the St. Cezaire
coach before the door of the Cheval Blanc, be seized upon to secure for
our grandchildren an indelible memory of travel conditions in our day.
So I beg indulgence."

Two schoolgirls smothered a snicker. There was a dangerous glitter in
the old dame's eye. She did not answer me. But a young woman raised her
voice in a threat to have the driver dismissed. Enough time had been
gained. The Artist signified his willingness to have the mail leave now
for St. Cezaire.

Off went the coach, white horse and black horse clattering alternately
hoofs that would gladly have remained longer in repose. The soldier
saluted. The driver grinned. We waved to the old woman with the poke
bonnet, and lifted our glasses to several pretty girls who appeared at
the coach door for the first time in order that they might glare at us.
I am afraid I must record that it was to glare. Our friendly salutation
was not answered. But we had the sketch. That was what really mattered.

We were half an hour late at the rendezvous with our carriage man for the
return journey to Cannes. But he had lunched well, and did not seem to
mind.