The traveller does not see the ocean itself until his machine mounts the last hill before reaching Biarritz. Nature has found it necessary to erect a huge barrier against the onslaught of all that water which just here in the right angle formed by the coasts of France and Spain rolls in with such terrible force that no wall built by man is able to withstand it. Hence the God of the earth erected these hills to protect his domain in the eternal warfare with the God of the sea, and Biarritz has set herself down on the outer side of the hills to have a good view of the conflict. Her green and pink villas and many hotels spread out before one on either hand, and down below cluster the hotels close to the water where even on "a quiet day" their windows are splashed by the attacking waves. Fortunately the God of the earth has made this coast a rocky one, using these foot-hills of the Pyrenees as buffers against the sea; otherwise, the town would vanish some stormy night. In fact, even a rock barrier does not appear to have protected at this point, for surely in some wild moment of rage the storm dragon did seize a large mouthful from just this corner of Europe,--thus forming the Bay of Biscay,--and turning, dropped it in the shape of the Island of New Foundland in the dreariest portion of the Western Atlantic. (Examine the map for yourself.) There he hides his plunder in perpetual mists, where the fishermen from this coast go down to their graves annually by the hundreds. Here to-day all is glorious sunshine with no thoughts of disaster. Off to the southwest the sparkling mountains of Spain stretch out and out until they blend with the swirling waters of the Bay of Biscay gleaming blackly, while to the northward the coast of France bears away on guard against further encroachments. As we roll into the outskirts of the town of Biarritz, the route is mostly between high walls draped in trailing vines and pierced with iron gateways, through whose trellis-work stiff walks bordered by formal flower beds, are to be seen leading up to much more formal villas. There are some quaint signs on the many little hotels; here, for instance, is the "Inn of the Parlor of Love" in a shady corner all by itself. Jean seems inclined to stop, but I veto the inclination, and rolling swiftly onward, we shortly draw up at the door of the Hôtel du Palais, recently opened and so new that its magnificence hurts both the sense of smell and sight. It was originally the palace of the Empress Eugenie and stands just over the sea.