he room like a
firework. "You may well ask, monsieur. No house so badly supplied with
coals as the charbonnier, and in Narbonne we see little of our own
honey. Like the fish in a seaport, it is all sent away, and you will
find more of it in Paris than here. But I will try to unearth a jar
from my stores."

Apparently the quest was unsuccessful, for no honey appeared. Or it may
be that in contemplating the _lune de miel_ in the garlanded
banqueting-room the more material article was lost sight of. With one
hundred and fifty people on her brain, no wonder if small matters were
forgotten. And yet madame seemed of those who forget nothing, her
faculties embracing both wide organisation and minute detail. A thin,
wiry woman, with a quick walk and a light step, dark eyes that nothing
escaped, yet without tyranny or sharpness of manner. Only once did we
hear her rebuking one of her waiters for the sin of procrastination.

"Leave nothing till to-morrow that can be done to-day," she wound up
with, "or you will soon find the world ahead and you left behind in the
race. Those are the people that come to poverty and have only themselves
to thank for it. That, monsieur," turning to us who waited a direction,
"is the reason we cannot very much help what are called the poor. Some
great failing brings them to that condition--laziness, stupidity or
vice, and your aid will never give them energy, wisdom or virtue."

Then the direction we asked for was bestowed, and the erring waiter
ordered to show us the way to the cathedral.

In the town we found very little that was not ordinary and common-place.
It is ancient, its streets are badly paved and tortuous, and it
possesses scarcely anything in the way of picturesque outlines, nothing
in the way of Roman remains. Yet it flourished as far back as the fifth
century B.C., and in the first century was in the hands of the Romans,
great in theatres, baths, temples, and triumphal arches. Of these not a
vestige has survived.

It was one of the great ports of the Mediterranean, which flowed up to
its foundations, but has gradually receded some eight miles. From one of
the great towers of the Hotel de Ville you may trace the outlines of the
Cevennes and Pyrenees on the one side, on the other watch the broad blue
waters shimmering in the sunshine, more beautiful than a dream in their
deep sapphire; you may count the white-winged boats sailing lazily to
and fro upon its flashing surface; and on s