f Cagnes than I do,
but he would rather have known more of Mademoiselle Simone.

CHAPTER III

SAINT-PAUL-DU-VAR

At the restaurant opposite the Cagnes railway station the waitress
welcomed us as old friends. She told us how lucky we were to come on a
Friday. Fish just caught that morning--the best we would ever eat in our
lives--were waiting for us in the kitchen. We flattered ourselves that
the disappointment was mutual when we had to tell her that there was time
only for an _aperitif_. Precisely because it was Friday and not Sunday,
there was no reasonable hope of running into Monsieur le Cure or
Mademoiselle Simone or a game of _boules_, if we climbed the steep hill
to Cagnes. On our last visit, we had seen from the top of Cagnes a
walled city crowning another hill several miles inland.
Saint-Paul-du-Var was our goal today.

Electric trams run to Grasse and to Vence from Cagnes. The lines
separate at Villeneuve-Loubet, a mile back from the Nice-Cannes road.
The Vence tram would have taken us to Saint-Paul-du-Var along the road
that began to avoid the valley after passing Villeneuve-Loubet. It was
one of those _routes nationales_ of which the France of motorists is so
proud, hard and smooth and rounded to drain quickly, never allowing
itself a rut or a steep grade or a sharp turn. This national highway was
like all the easy paths in life. It meant the shortest distance
comfortably possible for obtaining your objective. It eliminated
surprises. It showed you all the time all there was to see, and kept you
kilometrically informed of your progress. It was paralleled by the
electric tram line. It enabled you to explore the country in true city
fashion.

We were walking, and the low road, signpostless, attracted us. It
started off in the same general direction, but through the valley. It
was all that a country road ought to be. It had honest ruts and
unattached stones of various sizes. Cows had passed along that way.
Trees met overhead irregularly, and bushes grew up in confusion on the
sides. The ruthlessness of macadam, the pressure of fat tires, the
scorching of engines, had not banished the thick grass which the country
wants to give its roads, and would give to all its roads if the country
were not being constantly "improved." There were places where one could
rest without fear of sun and ditch-water and clouds of dust. Why should
one go from the city to the country to breathe tar and g