The whole effect of Avignon is mediaeval.  In Arles your mind flies back at once to Rome, and then pushes away from Rome to find Greece.  All among the red, pink, and yellow houses, huddled picturesquely together round the great arena, you see Rome in the carved columns and dark piles of brick built into mediaeval walls.  The glow and colour of the shops and houses seem only to intensify the grimness and grayness of that Roman background, the immense wall of the arena.  Greece you see in the eyes of the beautiful, stately women, young and old, in their classic features, and the moulding of their noble figures. (No wonder Epistemon urged his giant to let the beautiful girls of Arles alone!) You feel Greece, too, in the soft charm of the atmosphere, the dreamy blue of the sky, and the sunshine, which is not quite garish golden, not quite pale silver; a special sky and special sunshine, which seem to belong to Arles alone, enclosing the city in a dream of vanished days.  The very gaiety which must have sparkled there for happy Greek youths and maidens gives a strange, fascinating sadness to it now, as if one felt the weight of Roman rule which came and dimmed the sunlight.

It was delightful to walk the streets, to look at the lovely women in their becoming head-dresses, and to stare into the windows of curiosity shops.  But there was the danger of committing lese-majeste by running into the arms of the bride and groom at the museum, so “my brother” hurried me along faster than I liked, until the fascination of the museum had enthralled me; then I thanked him, for Mistral was there, for the moment all alone.

Mr. Dane hadn’t told me that they had met before, but Monsieur Mistral greeted him at once as an acquaintance, smiling one of his illuminating smiles.  He even remembered certain treasures of the museum which the chauffeur—­in unchauffeur days—­had liked best.  These were pointed out and their interest explained to me, best of all to my romantic, Latin side being the “Cabelladuro d’Or,” the lovely golden hair of the dead Beauty of Les Baux, that enchanted princess whose magic sleep was so rudely broken.  We all talked together of the exquisite Venus of Arles, agreeing that it was wicked to have transplanted her to the Louvre; and Mistral’s eyes rested upon me with something like interest for a moment as I said that I had seen and loved her there.  I felt flattered and happy, forgetting that I was only a servant, who ought scarcely to have dared speak in the presence of this great genius.

“She seems to understand something of the charm of Provence, which makes our country different from any other in the world, does she not?” the poet said at last to my companion.  “She would enjoy an August fete at Arles.  Some day you ought to bring her.”

Mr. Dane did not answer or look at me; and I was thankful for that, because I was being silly enough to blush.  It was too easy so see what Monsieur Mistral thought!