rdinal's pavilion were visible not many years ago.
The death of Velasquez, the painter, was caused by his exertions in
superintending these constructions; duties more fitting to an
upholsterer than a painter.

We finished our tour of the Pyrenees at Fontarabia, having followed
along the shadow of these great frontier mountains their entire
length; not wholly unknown ground, perhaps, but for the most part
entirely unspoiled, and, as a touring-ground for the automobilist,
without a peer.

Chapter III
In Languedoc And Old Provence

[Illustration: Languedoc & Provence]

The dim purple curtain of the Pyrenees had been drawn behind, us, and
we were passing from the patois of Languedoc to the patois of
Provence, where the peasants say _pardie_ in place of _pardou_ when
an exclamation of surprise comes from their lips.

Cast your eyes over the map of ancient France, and you will
distinguish plainly the lines of demarcation between the old
political divisions which, in truth, the traveller by road may find
to exist even to-day, in the manners and customs of the people at
least.

Unconsciously we drew away from the sleepy indolence of Perpignan and
Roussillon, and before we knew it had passed Narbonne, and on through
Beziers to Agde, where we proposed stopping for the night.

Quite as Spanish-looking as Perpignan, Agde was the very antithesis
of the gay and frivolous Catalan city. The aspect of its purple-brown
architecture, the bridge-piers crossing the Herault, and the very
pavements themselves were a colour-scheme quite unlike anything we
had seen elsewhere. Brilliant and warm as a painting of Velasquez,
there was nothing gaudy, and one could only dream of the time when
the Renaissance house-fronts sheltered lords and ladies of high
degree instead of itinerant automobilists and travelling salesmen.

The Hotel du Cheval Blanc was one of these. It is not a particularly
up-to-date hostelry, and there is a scant accommodation for
automobiles, but for all that it is good of its kind, and one dines
and sleeps well to the accompaniment of the rushing waters of the
river, at its very dooryard, on its way to the sea.

From Agde to Montpellier is fifty odd kilometres over the worst
stretch of roadway of the same length to be found in France, save
perhaps that awful paved road of Navarre across the Landes.

Montpellier is one of the most luxurious and well-kept small cities
of France. It is the seat of the prefecture, the