itornes, who
proved the bone of contention. The Hotel du Grand Monarque, is evidently
on a par with that class of inns in our English country towns, which
bear the royal badge of the George and Dragon, through some fatality
attendant on high names and dignities.

From Peage de Rousillon to St. Vallier, you traverse eighteen miles of
flat road, only enlivened by the hills to the right of the Rhone, which,
becoming gradually more rocky and abrupt, meet at length with a
corresponding barrier on the left, and enclose the river in a narrow
valley. Just beyond its entrance, which we had distinguished from above
Peage de Rousillon, stands the town of St. Vallier, where the conducteur
intended that we should breakfast. The Hotel de Poste is a most dismal
hole indeed, in every respect, and no appearance of any other inn: but
soon after we learnt by experience, that wherever there is a cafe of
tolerable appearance, it affords a much better chance for breakfast than
any inn of the same rank. Neatness is the more the trade of the
cafetier, and his notions of breakfast much more English, than those of
the inn-keeper, who is usually put completely out of his way by our
habits.

"Eh! Messieurs," said a well-dressed bourgeoise, who saw us sauntering
about near the door of her shop, "vous irez sans doute voir notre beau
chateau: il fut donne par Jean de Poitiers au premier Seigneur de St.
Vallier, et il a descendu jusqu'a Mons. de St. Vallier l'actuel
proprietaire." Nothing could be more acceptable to idle wanderers than
this information, and off we set at a round pace up a most filthy
street, according to our directions; our heads full of crenelles,
pont-levis, donjon, fosse, and the proper etceteras. I am not sure that
we did not half expect to meet M. de St. Vallier himself, (a good
baronial name) cap-a-pie at the barbacan gate, his lance in rest, and
his visor down, like Sir Boucicault, or the Lord de Roye, or the
doughtiest of Froissart's heroes. A long white-washed mud wall, with
green folding gates, began somewhat to cool our Gothic
enthusiasm--. "Perhaps the portcullis was destroyed at the Revolution." A
bell hung at the gate. "Pshaw, it ought at least to have been a
bugle-horn." When we had rung, instead of sounding a blast, not a dwarf,
but a slipshod dirty girl, not much bigger, opened the door cautiously.
"Il ne faut pas entrer: Monsieur ne permet personne de voir le chateau."
We made involuntarily two steps forward; when