er, a Queen of the Romans, of
France, of Naples, and of England, were brought up in the castle of the
little hillside hamlet of Saint-Maime Dauphin. Provence is quiet, rural,
provincial; a land of markets, busy country inns, and farms; not of
modern greatness nor of modern renown. Its children are a fine and busy
race, no less strong and fine than in the land's more stirring times,
but they live their years of greatness in other, "more progressive"
parts of France, and the Provencal genius, which remains very native to
the soil, is broadly known to fame as "French." Like some rich old wine
hidden in the cellars of the few, Provence lies safely ensconced behind
Avignon and Arles, and only the epicures of history penetrate her hills.

Her mediaeval ruins seem to belong to a past almost as dead and ghostly
as her Roman days, and to realise her Middle Ages, one must leave the
busy people in the town below, climb one of the hills, and sitting
beside the crumbling walls of some great tower or castle, watch the hot
sun setting behind the low mountains and lighting in a glow the bare
walls of some other ruined stronghold on a neighbouring height. The
shadows creep into the valleys, the rocks grow grey and cold, and the
clusters of trees beside them become darkly mysterious. Then far beneath
a white thread seems to appear, beginning at the valley's entrance and
twisting along its length until it disappears behind another hill. This
is the road; and by the time the eye has followed its long course,
daylight has grown fainter. Then Provence takes on a long-lost
splendour. To those who care to see, cavalcades of soldiers or of
hunters come home along the road, castles become whole and frowning, the
dying sun casts its light through their gaping window-holes, as light of
nightly revels used to shine, and a phantom Mediaevalism appears.

One of the powerful families of the country, the Counts of Forcalquier,
sprang from the House of Berenger in the XI century, and a hundred and
fifty years later, grown too great, were crushed by the haughty parent
house. More than one hill of Eastern Provence has borne their tall
watchtowers, more than one village owed them allegiance, and a large
town in the hills was their capital and bore their name. And yet not a
ruined tower that overlooks the Provencal mountains, not a village,
gate, or castle--Manosque or old Saint-Maime,--but speaks more vividly
of the old Counts than does Forcalquier, former