uced circumstances, for we have, now but twenty francs each,
left, to take us to Paris. Our boots, too, after serving us so long,
begin to show signs of failing in this hour of adversity. Although we
are somewhat accustomed to such circumstances, I cannot help shrinking
when I think of the solitary napoleon and the five hundred miles to be
passed. Perhaps, however, the coin will do as much as its great
namesake, and achieve for us a Marengo in the war with fate.

CHAPTER XLIII.

PILGRIMAGE TO VAUCLUSE AND JOURNEY UP THE RHONE.

We left Marseilles about nine o'clock, on a dull, rainy morning, for
Avignon and the Rhone, intending to take in our way the glen of
Vaucluse. The dirty _faubourgs_ stretch out along the road for a great
distance, and we trudged through them, past foundries, furnaces and
manufactories, considerably disheartened with the prospect. We wound
among the bleak stony hills, continually ascending, for nearly three
hours. Great numbers of cabarets, frequented by the common people, lined
the roads, and we met continually trains of heavy laden wagons, drawn by
large mules. The country is very wild and barren, and would have been
tiresome, except for the pine groves with their beautiful green foliage.
We got something to eat with difficulty at an inn, for the people spoke
nothing but the Provencal dialect, and the place was so cold and
cheerless we were glad to go out again into the storm. It mattered
little to us, that we heard the language in which the gay troubadours of
king Rene sung their songs of love. We thought more of our dripping
clothes and numb, cold limbs, and would have been glad to hear instead,
the strong, hearty German tongue, full of warmth and kindly sympathy for
the stranger. The wind swept drearily among the hills; black, gusty
clouds covered the sky, and the incessant rain filled the road with
muddy pools. We looked at the country chateaux, so comfortable in the
midst of their sheltering poplars, with a sigh, and thought of homes
afar off, whose doors were never closed to _us_.

This was all forgotten, when we reached Aix, and the hostess of the Cafe
d'Afrique filled her little stove with fresh coal, and hung our wet
garments around it, while her daughter, a pale-faced, crippled child,
smiled kindly on us and tried to talk with us in French. Putting on our
damp, heavy coats again, B---- and I rambled through the streets, while
our frugal supper was preparing. We saw the statu