The Frenchman when he crosses the frontier into Monaco literally journeys abroad. The frontier patrol is a gorgeous sort of an individual by himself, a sort of a cross between the _gardien de la paix_ of France and the Italian customs officer who comes into the carriages of the personally conducted tourists to Italy searching for contraband matches and salt,--as if any civilized person would attempt to smuggle these unwholesome things anyway. As one enters the Principality, by the road coming from Nice, he passes between the rock and the steep hillsides by the Boulevard Charles III., and, turning to the right, enters the town where is the seat of government. The town has some three thousand odd inhabitants, which is a good many for the “_mignonne cité_,” of which one makes the round in ten minutes. But what a round! A promenade without a rival in the world! Well-kept houses, villas, and palaces at every turn, with a fringe of rocky escarpment, and here and there a plot of luxuriant soil which gives a foothold to the fig-trees of Barbary, aloes, olive and orange trees, giant geraniums, lauriers-roses and all the flora of a subtropical climate. The inhabitant of the Principality of Monaco is fortunate in more ways than one; he is not taxed by the _impôt_, and he does not contribute a sou to the civil list of the prince. “The game” pays all this, and, since its profits mostly come from those who can afford to pay, who shall not say that it is a blessing rather than a curse. Another thing: the Monégasques, the descendants of the original natives, are all “_gentilshommes_,” by reason of the ennobling of their ancestors by Charles Quint. By a sinuous route one descends from Monaco to La Condamine, the most populous centre in the Principality, built between the rock of Monaco and the hill of Monte Carlo. Five hundred metres farther on, but upward, and one is on the plateau of Spélugues, a name now changed to Monte Carlo. It is with a certain hypocrisy, of course, that the frequenters of Monte Carlo rave about its charms and its resemblance to Florence or to Athens; they come there for the game and the social distractions which it offers, and that’s all there is about it. It is all very fascinating nevertheless. All the splendour of Monte Carlo, and it is splendid in all its appointments without a doubt, is but a mask for the comings and goings of the gambler’s hopes and those who live off of his passion. A true philosopher will not cavil at this; the sea is the most delightful blue; the background one of the most entrancing to be seen in a world’s tour; and all the necessaries and refinements of life are here in the most superlative degree. Who would, or could, moralize under such conditions? It’s enough to bring a smile of contentment to the countenance of the most confirmed and blasé dyspeptic who ever lived.