It is a pleasant walk to what the townsfolk call the Pierre de Quare. Leaving behind us the cathedral and suburbs, we follow a road winding in a south-easterly direction to the little village of Couhard, watered by a gurgling stream, and sheltered by a fair green hill. As we quit the highroad to reach the monument, we come upon pretty pastoral groups. It is supper-time-l'heure de la soupe, as French rustics say--and before every cottage-door are squatted family groups, eating their pottage on the doorsteps. Around are the dogs and cats, chickens, pigs and goats. To every humble homestead is attached orchard, garden, even a patch of corn or vineyard. All is peace and contentment. Certainly these rural interiors would not satisfy everybody. Neatness and cleanliness do not always prevail among poor folks in France, any more than in England. But, alike, young and old are neatly and wholesomely dressed. Beggars are almost nil, and the prevailing aspect is one of unforgettable well-being, independence, and cheerfulness. In strange contrast with these domestic pictures--pet kittens and children playing close under its shadow, tiny cabbage and tomato beds planted to its very edge-stands the huge, angular, pyramidal pile called the Pierre de Quare. Very striking is the effect of the huge, solid brown mass, tapering to a point, from summit to base reaching half the height of the cathedral-spire, its original height in all probability having been much loftier. The whole is a ruin, yet intact, if I may be pardoned the paradox. Whilst the inner part of the monument remains uninjured, its sides have been stripped of the marble slabs or polished stones that once in all probability covered and adorned them. The outer surface now shows a rough, jagged ensemble of masses of stone rudely put together, the entire pyramid being solid. We walked home in the evening light, getting dozens of charming pictures in the twilight--pictures already familiar to me, yet ever bringing a sense of newness. French towns, like French scenery, should be revisited thus, and I hope ere very long to pay Autun my fourth visit, and to take, for a second time, those delightful drives from Avallon to Vézélay, and from the modern capital of the little Celtic kingdom to the ancient, perched so airily above the surrounding hills. CHAPTER III. FROM LYONS TO AVIGNON BY THE RHÔNE. From Autun to Lyons is a journey that calls for little comment, unless made, as wise Arthur Young made it a hundred years ago, on horseback; or unless we take the steamer at Châlon, and enjoy the scenery of the Saône, Mr. Hamerton's favourite river. We were too impatient, however, to reach the Causses to stop, even for the sake of a sail on the Saône, and made haste to catch the very next _Gladiateur_ bound to Avignon. Why all these Rhône steamers should be called _Gladiateur_ I don't know, but so it is.