The Riviera isn’t exactly as a Frenchman wrote of it: “all Americans, English, and Germans,” and it is hardly likely you will find a hotel where none of the attendants speak French (as this same Frenchman declared), but nevertheless “All right” is as often the reply as “Oui, monsieur.” All the multifarious attractions of this strip of coast-line are doubly enhanced by the delicious climate, and the wonders of the Baie des Anges and the Golfe de la Napoule are more and more charming as the sun rises higher in the heavens, and La Napoule, St. Jean, Beaulieu, Passable, Villefranche, Cap Martin, and Cap Ferrat, the “Corniche,” La Turbie, Monaco, and Menton are all names to conjure with when one wants to call to mind what a modern Eden might be like. Of course Monte Carlo dominates everything. It is the one objective point, more or less frequently, of all Riviera dwellers. The sumptuousness of it acts like a loadstone toward steel, or the candle-flame to the moth, and many are the wings that are singed and clipped within its boundaries. Whatever may be the moral or immoral aspect of Monte Carlo, it does not matter in the least. It has its opponents and its partisans,--and the bank goes on winning for ever. Meantime the whole region is prosperous, and the public certainly gets what it comes for. The _Monégasques_ themselves profit the most however. They are, for instance, exempt from taxes of any sort, which is considerable of a boon in heavily taxed continental Europe. Monte Carlo is an enigma. Its palatial hotels, its Casino, its game, and its concerts and theatre, its pigeon-shooting, its automobile yachting, and all the rest contribute to a round of gaiety not elsewhere known. It may rain “_hallebardes_,” as the French have it, but the most adverse weather report which ever gets into the papers from Monte Carlo is “_ciel nuageux_.” [Illustration: _The Terrace, Monte Carlo_] If Marseilles is the “Modern Babylon” of the workaday world, the Riviera--in the season--may well be called the “_Cosmopolis de luxe_.” In winter all nations under the sun are there, but in summer it is quite another story; still, Monte Carlo’s tables run the year around, and, as the inhabitant of the principality is not allowed to enter its profane portals, it is certain that visitors are not entirely absent. There are three distinct Rivieras: the French Riviera proper, from Toulon to Menton; the Italian Riviera, from Bordighera to Alassio; and the Levantine Riviera, from Genoa to Viareggio.