As Barfleur explained it, we went due south from Paris to Marseilles and then east along the coast of the Mediterranean until we came to the first stopping-place he had selected, Agay, where we would spend a few days in peace and quiet, far from the hurry and flare of the café life we had just left, and then journey on the hour or two more which it takes to reach Monte Carlo. He made this arrangement in order that we might have the journey through France by day, and proceed from Agay of a morning, which would give us, if we had luck--and such luck usually prevails on the Riviera--a sunlight view of the Mediterranean breaking in rich blue waves against a coast that is yellow and brown and gold and green by turns. Coming south from Paris I had the same sensation of wonder that I had traveling from Calais to Paris--a wonder as to where the forty odd millions of the population of France kept itself. It was not visible from the windows of the flying train. All the way we traveled through an almost treeless country past little white lawns and vineyards; and I never realized before, although I must have known, that these same vineyards were composed of separate vines, set in rows like corn stalks and standing up for all the world like a gnarled T. Every now and then a simple, straight-running, silvery stream would appear, making its way through a perfectly level lane and set on either bank with tall single lines of feathery poplars. The French landscape painters have used these over and over; and they illustrate exactly the still, lonely character of the country. To me, outside of Paris, France has an atmosphere of silence and loneliness; although, considering the character of the French people I do not understand how that can be. On the way south there was much badinage between Barfleur and Sir Scorp, who accompanied us, as to the character of this adventure. A certain young friend of Barfleur’s daughter was then resident at Lyons; and it was Barfleur’s humorously expressed hope, that his daughter’s friend would bring him a basket of cold chicken, cake, fruit, and wine. It seems that he had urged Berenice to write her friend that he was passing through; and I was hourly amused at Scorp’s biting reference to Barfleur’s “parental ruse,” which he vindictively hoped would come to nothing. It was as he hoped; for at Lyons the young lady and her parents appeared, but no basket. There were some minutes of animated conversation on the platform; and then we were off again at high speed through the same flat land, until we reached a lovely mountain range in the south of France--a region of huts and heavy ox-wains. It reminded me somewhat of the mountain regions of northern Kentucky. At Marseilles there was a long wait in the dark. A large number of passengers left the train here; and then we rode on for an hour or two more, arriving by moonlight at Agay, or at least the nearest railway station to it.