res in any
provincial large town. We were served with imitation Parisian
repasts, and were asked if we would like to read the London _Times_.
Why the London _Times_ no one knew: why not the New Orleans
_Picayune_ and be done with it?

We did not want to do anything of the sort, we merely wanted to "do"
the town, to see the tomb of Pope Jean XXII. in the cathedral, to
walk, if possible, upon the part left standing of St. Benezet's old
Pont d'Avignon, a memory which was burned into our minds since our
schooldays, when we played and sang the French version of "London
Bridge is falling down"--"_Sur le pont d'Avignon._"

The greatest monument of all is the magnificent Palais des Papes, its
crenelated walls and battlements vying with the city walls and
ramparts as a splendid example of mediaeval architecture. We saw all
these things and the museum with its excellent collections, and the
library of thirty thousand volumes and four thousand manuscripts.

One thing we nearly missed was Villeneuve-les-Avignon, a ruined
wall-circled town on the opposite bank of the Rhone. Its machicolated
crests glistened in the brilliant Southern sunlight like an exotic of
the Saharan country. It is quite the most foreign and African-looking
jumble of architectural forms to be seen in France. It took us three
hours to cross the river and stroll about its debris-encumbered
streets and get back again and start on our way northward, but it was
worth the time and trouble.

From St. Remy to Orange, perhaps sixty kilometres, was not a long
daily run by any means, and we would not have stopped at Orange for
the night except that it was imperative that we should see the fine
antique theatre, the most magnificent, the largest, and the best
preserved of all existing Roman theatres.

We saw it, and seeing it wondered, though, when one tries to project
the mind back into the past and picture the scenes which once went on
upon its boards, the task were seemingly impossible.

[Illustration: Avignon and Tournon]

The Roman Arc de Triomphe, too, at Orange, which spans the roadway to
the North--the same great natural road which all its length froth
Paris to Antibes is known as the Route d'Italie--is a monument more
splendid, as to its preservation, than anything of the kind outside
Italy itself.

There is ample and excellent accommodation for the automobilist at
Orange, at the Hotel des Princes, which sounds good and is good. They
have even a writing-r