l! The castle of Villeneuve-Loubet is the only one in this
corner of Provence that belongs to its pre-Revolutionary owners, but
there are many centuries between feudal days and our time. Castles
remain, but history changes. The March-Tripoly de Panisse-Passis are not
a feudal family, and they do not come from the north. The African part
of the name is due to an unproven claim of descent from a French consular
official in Tripoli of the sixteenth century. The chateau, after a
succession of proprietors, came to the Panisse family through marriage
with the daughter of a Marseilles notary, who got the chateau by
foreclosing a mortgage. During the Revolutionary period, the property
was saved from confiscation by a clever straddle. The owner stayed in
France, and supported the Revolution, while the son emigrated with the
Bourbons. The peerage was created just a hundred years ago by Louis
XVIII, in reward for the refusal of the Panisses to follow Napoleon a
second time after the return from Elba."

Another pervasive idea!

"The Moon got you," was the laughing comment of the Artist.

Historical reminiscences died hard, however. We discussed the possible
Saracen origin of the pentagonal tower, and the vicissitudes of the
castle during the struggles between Mohammedans and Christians, feudal
lords and kings, Catholics and Protestants, Spaniards and French.
Monsieur le Maire was a Bonapartist, and he insisted that the chief glory
of Villeneuve-Loubet was the association with Napoleon.

"When Napoleon was living at Nice," he said, "he used to come out here
often. Napoleon thought that the view of sea and mountains from
Villeneuve-Loubet was the finest on the Riviera. He could stand up there
and look out towards his native island, and contemplate the mountains the
crossing of which was his first great step to fame. Napoleon (and here
Monsieur le Maire winked at the Artist) was a man of the sun seeking the
north--just like Caesar, ho! ho!"

The arrival of the tram, which had recovered its equilibrium, helped me
to recover mine. We said good night to Monsieur le Maire, and before
turning in went out on the iron bridge that spanned the Loup.

The river, swollen by the spring thaw and rains, had overflowed its
banks, and was swirling around willows and poplars. It was not deep, and
the water flashed in the moonlight as it rippled over the stones. There
was a smell of fresh-cut logs. We looked beyond a sawmill into a