Riviera Towns | Page 5

But he had dropped the reins to strike a match. In the moment thus
gained, I got out a franc, and pressed it into his hand.
"Your coach, my friend," I said, "is unique in all France. The coffee of
that celebrated artist yonder sitting at the terrace of the Garden-Bar is
getting cold while he immortalizes the Grasse-St. Cézaire service. In
the interest of art and history, I beg of you to delay your departure ten
little minutes."
The soldier had found the cigar to his liking. "A quarter of an hour will
do no harm at all," he announced positively, getting down from his
place.
The driver puffed and growled. "We have our journey to make, and the
hour of departure is one-thirty. If it is not too long--fifteen minutes at
the most." He pocketed the franc less reluctantly than he had spoken.
The soldier crossed the boulevard with me. Knowing how to appreciate
a good thing, he became our ally as soon as he had looked at the first

lines of the sketch. When the minutes passed, and the soldier saw that
the driver was growing restless, he went back and persuaded him to
come over and have a look at the drawing. This enabled me to get the
driver tabled before a tall glass of steaming coffee with a petit verre.
Soon an old dame, wearing a bonnet that antedated the coach, stuck out
her head. A watch was in her hand. Surely she was not of the Midi.
Fearing that she might influence the driver disadvantageously to our
interests, I went to inform her that the delay was unavoidable. I could
not offer her a cigar. There are never any bonbons in my pocket. So I
thought to make a speech.
"All my excuses," I explained, "for this regrettable delay. The coach in
which you are seated--and in which in a very, very few minutes you
will be riding--belongs to the generation before yourself and me. It is
important for the sake of history as well as art that the presence in
Grasse of my illustrious artist friend, coincident with the St. Cézaire
coach before the door of the Cheval Blanc, be seized upon to secure for
our grandchildren an indelible memory of travel conditions in our day.
So I beg indulgence."
Two schoolgirls smothered a snicker. There was a dangerous glitter in
the old dame's eye. She did not answer me. But a young woman raised
her voice in a threat to have the driver dismissed. Enough time had
been gained. The Artist signified his willingness to have the mail leave
now for St. Cézaire.
Off went the coach, white horse and black horse clattering alternately
hoofs that would gladly have remained longer in repose. The soldier
saluted. The driver grinned. We waved to the old woman with the poke
bonnet, and lifted our glasses to several pretty girls who appeared at the
coach door for the first time in order that they might glare at us. I am
afraid I must record that it was to glare. Our friendly salutation was not
answered. But we had the sketch. That was what really mattered.
We were half an hour late at the rendezvous with our carriage man for
the return journey to Cannes. But he had lunched well, and did not
seem to mind. Americans were scarce this season, and fortes

pourboires few and far between. On the Riviera--as elsewhere--you
benefit by your fellow-countrymen's generosity in the radiant courtesy
and good nature of those who serve you until you come to pay your bill.
Then you think you could have got along pretty well with less smiles.
We knew that our man would not risk his pourboire by opposing us, so
we suggested with all confidence that he drive round the curves alone
and meet us below by the railway station in "half an hour." We wanted
to go straight down through the city. The cocher looked at his watch
and thought a minute. He had already seen the Artist stop suddenly and
stay glued on one spot, like a cat patiently waiting to spring upon a bird.
He had seen how often oblivion to time comes. The lesser of two evils
was to keep us in sight. So he proposed with a sigh what we could
never have broached to him. "Perhaps we can drive down through the
city--why not?" "Why not?" we answered joyously in unison, as we
jumped into the victoria.
Down is down in Grasse. I think our cocher did not realize what he was
getting into, or he would have preferred taking his chances on a long
wait. He certainly did not know his way through the old town. He
asked at every corner, each time more desperately, as we became