he Maritime Alps; dark
purple shadows veil the recesses of the Estrelles.

Nor is it only this air of cheerfulness and vivacity which makes Cannes
so pleasant a spring resort for invalids; it possesses in addition an
advantage of situation which its more sheltered rivals necessarily want.
The high mountain walls that give their complete security from cold
winds to Mentone or San Remo are simply prison walls to visitors who are
too weak to face a steep ascent on foot or even on donkey-back, for
drives are out of the question except along one or two monotonous roads.
But the country round Cannes is full of easy walks and drives, and it is
as varied and beautiful as it is accessible. You step out of your hotel
into the midst of wild scenery, rough hills of broken granite screened
with firs, or paths winding through a wilderness of white heath.
Everywhere in spring the ground is carpeted with a profusion of
wild-flowers, cistus and brown orchis, narcissus and the scarlet
anemone; sometimes the forest scenery sweeps away, and leaves us among
olive-grounds and orange-gardens arranged in formal, picturesque rows.
And from every little height there are the same distant views of far-off
mountains, or the old town flooded with yellow light, or islands lying
gem-like in the dark blue sea, or the fiery hue of sunset over the
Estrelles.

Nor are these land-trips the only charm of Cannes. No one has seen the
coast of Provence in its beauty who has not seen it from the sea. A sail
to the isles of Lerins reveals for the first time the full glory of
Cannes even to those who have enjoyed most keenly the large
picturesqueness of its landscapes, the delicate colouring of its distant
hills, the splendour of its sunsets. As one drifts away from the shore
the circle of the Maritime Alps rises like the framework of some perfect
picture, the broken outline of the mountains to the left contrasting
with the cloud-capt heights above Turbia, snow-peaks peeping over the
further slopes between them, delicate lights and shadows falling among
the broken country of the foreground, Cannes itself stretching its
bright line of white along the shore. In the midst of the bay, the
centre as it were of this exquisite landscape, lie the two isles of
Lerins. With the larger, that of St. Marguerite, romance has more to do
than history, and the story of the "Man in the Iron Mask," who was so
long a prisoner in its fortress, is fast losing the mystery which made