“I imagine that Citheron must look like this,” murmured Catulle Mendès, as we stood looking down from a sun-baked eminence, “with the Gulf of Corinth there where you see that gleam of water.” As he spoke he began declaiming the passage from Sophocles’s _Œdipus the King_ descriptive if that classic scene. Two thousand feet below lay Ispanhac in a verdant valley, the River Tarn gleaming amid the cultivated fields like a cimeter thrown on a Turkish carpet. Our descent was an avalanche of laughing, singing “Cadets,” who rolled in the fresh-cut grass and chased each other through the ripening vineyards, shouting lines from tragedies to groups of open-mouthed farm-hands, and invading the tiny inns on the road with song and tumult. As we neared our goal its entire population, headed by the curé, came out to meet us and offer the hospitality of the town. In the market-place, one of our number, inspired by the antique solemnity of the surroundings, burst into the noble lines of Hugo’s _Devant Dieu_, before which the awestruck population uncovered and crossed themselves, imagining, doubtless, that it was a religious ceremony. Another scene recurs vividly to my memory. We were at St. Enimie. I had opened my window to breathe the night air after the heat and dust of the day and watch the moonlight on the quaint bridge at my feet. Suddenly from out the shadows there rose (like sounds in a dream) the exquisite tone of Sylvain’s voice, alternating with the baritone of d’Esparbes. They were seated at the water’s edge, intoxicated by the beauty of the scene and apparently oblivious of all else. The next day was passed on the Tarn, our ten little boats following each other single file on the narrow river, winding around the feet of mighty cliffs, or wandering out into sunny pasture lands where solitary peasants, interrupted in their labors, listened in astonishment to the chorus thundered from the passing boats, and waved us a welcome as we moved by. Space is lacking to give more than a suggestion of those days, passed in every known conveyance from the antique diligence to the hissing trolley, in company with men who seemed to have left their cares and their years behind them in Paris. Our last stop before arriving at Béziers was at La Case, where luncheon was served in the great hall of the château. Armand Sylvestre presided at the repast; his verses alternated with the singings of Emma Calvé, who had come from her neighboring château to greet her old friends and compatriots, the “Cadets.” As the meal terminated, more than one among the guests, I imagine, felt his heart heavy with the idea that to-morrow would end this pleasant ramble and send him back to the realities of life and the drudgery of daily bread-winning.