This view was one of those sweet, rare, delightful things that seem to permeate you and are unforgettable, like the memory of a great happiness. One sees, thinks, suffers, is moved and loves with the eyes. He who can feel with the eye experiences the same keen, exquisite and deep pleasure in looking at men and things as the man with the delicate and sensitive ear, whose soul music overwhelms. I turned to my companion, M. Martini, a pureblooded Southerner. “This is certainly one of the rarest sights which it has been vouchsafed to me to admire. “I have seen Mont Saint-Michel, that monstrous granite jewel, rise out of the sand at sunrise. “I have seen, in the Sahara, Lake Raianechergui, fifty kilometers long, shining under a moon as brilliant as our sun and breathing up toward it a white cloud, like a mist of milk. “I have seen, in the Lipari Islands, the weird sulphur crater of the Volcanello, a giant flower which smokes and burns, an enormous yellow flower, opening out in the midst of the sea, whose stem is a volcano. “But I have seen nothing more wonderful than Antibes, standing against the Alps in the setting sun. “And I know not how it is that memories of antiquity haunt me; verses of Homer come into my mind; this is a city of the ancient East, a city of the odyssey; this is Troy, although Troy was very far from the sea.” M. Martini drew the Sarty guide-book out of his pocket and read: “This city was originally a colony founded by the Phocians of Marseilles, about 340 B.C. They gave it the Greek name of Antipolis, meaning counter-city, city opposite another, because it is in fact opposite to Nice, another colony from Marseilles. “After the Gauls were conquered, the Romans turned Antibes into a municipal city, its inhabitants receiving the rights of Roman citizenship. “We know by an epigram of Martial that at this time----” I interrupted him: “I don't care what she was. I tell you that I see down there a city of the Odyssey. The coast of Asia and the coast of Europe resemble each other in their shores, and there is no city on the other coast of the Mediterranean which awakens in me the memories of the heroic age as this one does.” A footstep caused me to turn my head; a woman, a large, dark woman, was walking along the road which skirts the sea in going to the cape. “That is Madame Parisse, you know,” muttered Monsieur Martini, dwelling on the final syllable. No, I did not know, but that name, mentioned carelessly, that name of the Trojan shepherd, confirmed me in my dream. However, I asked: “Who is this Madame Parisse?” He seemed astonished that I did not know the story. I assured him that I did not know it, and I looked after the woman, who passed by without seeing us, dreaming, walking with steady and slow step, as doubtless the ladies of old walked. She was perhaps thirty-five years old and still very beautiful, though a trifle stout. And Monsieur Martini told me the following story: