h us," I said, "a tangible memory of this
beautiful, this picturesque, this verdant court in which you live."

"If you had to live here," she announced simply, "you'd want to go away
and forget it."

The fumes had burned from the charcoal. The woman picked up the brazier,
carried it inside without another word or look, and slammed the door
behind her with her foot.

The Artist was already in his sketch, but he paused to growl and
philosophize. "If she had waited a minute longer," he complained, "I
should have had her and the brazier. Funny how unappreciative people
are. You and I, _mon vieux_, would like nothing better than to stay
here. From the other side of her house that woman must have a great view
of the sea and the mountains. Is she going to watch the sunset? No, she
is going to make soup for her man on that brazier in a dark hole of a
room, and feel sorry for herself because she doesn't live in Paris where
she could go to the movies every night."

Our ardor for Saint-Paul-du-Var lasted splendidly through the sunset on
the ramparts. We had found the ideal spot. Hoi polloi could have their
Nice and their Cannes! But when night fell, there were few lights on the
street, and shopkeepers looked at us in stupid amazement when we inquired
about lodgings. We did not dare to ask in the drinking places, for fear
they might volunteer to put us up. In the _epiceries_, we were offered
bread and sardines. There was no butter. So we went rather less
reluctantly than we had thought possible an hour earlier out of the gate
towards the _hotel-restaurant_. An old man was camped against the wall
in a wagon like Pierre's. He had been sharpening Saint-Paul-du-Var's
scissors and knives. We confided in him, and asked if he thought the
_hotel-restaurant_ would give us a good dinner and a good bed. The
scissors-grinder wrinkled his nose and twinkled his eyes. "The last tram
from Vence to Cagnes stops over there at eight-ten," he said decisively.
"You have five minutes to catch it. Get off at Villeneuve-Loubet, and go
to the Hotel Beau-Site. The proprietor is a _cordon bleu_ of a _chef_.
He has his own trout, and he knows just what tourists like to eat and
drink. Motorists stop there over night, so you need have no fear."

"But--" I started to remonstrate.

The Artist was already hurrying in the direction of the tram. I followed
him.

The next morning the Artist went back to Saint-Paul-du-Var for his
sketche