Americans were scarce this season, and _fortes pourboires_ few and
far between. On the Riviera--as elsewhere--you benefit by your
fellow-countrymen's generosity in the radiant courtesy and good nature of
those who serve you until you come to pay your bill. Then you think you
could have got along pretty well with less smiles. We knew that our man
would not risk his _pourboire_ by opposing us, so we suggested with all
confidence that he drive round the curves alone and meet us below by the
railway station in "half an hour." We wanted to go straight down through
the city. The _cocher_ looked at his watch and thought a minute. He had
already seen the Artist stop suddenly and stay glued on one spot, like a
cat patiently waiting to spring upon a bird. He had seen how often
oblivion to time comes. The lesser of two evils was to keep us in sight.
So he proposed with a sigh what we could never have broached to him.
"Perhaps we can drive down through the city--why not?" "Why not?" we
answered joyously in unison, as we jumped into the victoria.

Down is down in Grasse. I think our _cocher_ did not realize what he was
getting into, or he would have preferred taking his chances on a long
wait. He certainly did not know his way through the old town. He asked
at every corner, each time more desperately, as we became engaged in a
maze of narrow streets, which were made before the days of victorias.
There was no way of turning. We had to go down--precipitously down.
With brake jammed tight, and curses that echoed from wall to wall and
around corners, the _cocher_ held the reins to his chest. The horses,
gently pushed forward, much against their will, by the weight of the
carriage, planted all fours firm and slid over the stones that centuries
of sabots and hand-carts had worn smooth. The noise brought everyone to
windows and doors, and the sight kept them there. Tourist victorias did
not coast through Grasse every day. Advice was freely proffered. The
angrier our _cocher_ became the more frequently he was told to put on his
brake and hold tight to the reins.

After half an hour we came out at the funicular beside the railway
station.

"How delightful, and how fortunate!" exclaimed the Artist. "That
certainly was a short cut. We have saved several kilometers!"

I thought the _cocher_ would explode. But he merely nodded. Far be it
from me to say that he did not understand the Artist's French for "short
cut." Per