swiftly and silently. One is told that slipping might mean more than a
ducking. Owners of villas on the rocks make light of octopi stories,
and as local boomers are trying to make Theoule a summer resort, it is
explained that the octopi never come near the beach. Even if they did,
they would not be dangerous there. How could they get a hold on the
sand with some tentacles while others were grabbing you?

I have never wanted to see anything quite so badly as I wanted to see
an octopus at Theoule. Octopus hunting surpasses gathering four-leaf
clovers and fishing as an occupation in which hope eternal plays the
principle role. I gradually abandoned other pursuits, and sat smoking
on rocks by the half day, excusing indolence on the ground of the
thrilling story I was going to get. I learned over again painfully the
boyhood way of drinking from a brook, and lay face downward on island
stones. With the enthusiastic help of my children, I made a dummy
stuffed with pine cones, and let him float at the end of a rope. Never
a tentacle, let alone octopus, appeared. I had to rest content with
Victor Hugo's stirring picture in "The Toilers of the Sea."

A plotting wife encouraged the octopus hunts by taking part in them,
and expressing frequently her belief in the imminent appearance of the
octopi. She declared that sooner or later my reward would come. She
threw off the mask on the first day of May, when she thought it was
time to return to work. She announced to the Artist and me that the
octopi had gone over to the African coast to keep cool until next
winter, and that we had better all go to Paris to do the same. We were
ready. Theoule was still lovely, and the terrace breakfasts had lost
none of their charm. But one does not linger indefinitely on the
Riviera unless _dolce far niente_ has become the principal thing in
life.

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIVIERA TOWNS***

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