– mythical," said the Professor. "I merely mentioned it as one of the legends. To come down to facts – always much more impressive to a rightly disposed mind – the first mention of Mentone, per se, on the authentic page of history, occurs in the eighth century. In A.D. 975 it belonged to the Lascaris, Counts of Ventimiglia, a family of royal origin and Greek descent."
"Are there any of them left?" inquired Janet.
"I really do not know," replied the Professor, who was not interested in that branch of the subject. "In the fourteenth century the village passed into the possession of the Grimaldi family, Princes of Monaco, and they held it, legally at least, until 1860, when it was attached to France."
"He is really quite Cyclopean in his information," murmured Mrs. Trescott.
But the Professor had now discovered Inness, who, with an expression of deepest interest on his face, was walking close at his heels, and writing as he walked in a note-book.
"What are you doing, sir?" said the Professor, in his college tone.
"Taking notes," replied Inness, respectfully. "Miss Trescott may feel willing to trust her memory, but I wish to preserve your remarks for future reference," and he went on with his writing.
The Professor looked at him sharply, but the youth's face remained immovable, and he went on.
"These three little towns, then, Mentone, Roccabruna, and Monaco, have belonged to the Princes of Monaco since the early Middle Ages."
"Those dear Middle Ages!" said Mrs. Clary.
The Professor gravely looked at her, and then repeated his phrase, as if linking together his remarks over her unimportant head. "As I observed – the early Middle Ages. But in 1848 Mentone and Roccabruna, unable longer to endure the tyranny of their rulers, revolted and declared their independence. The Prince at that time lived in Paris, knew little of his subjects, and apparently cared less, save to get from them through agents as much income as possible for his Parisian luxuries." (Impossible to describe the accent which our Puritan Professor gave to those two words.) "His little territory produced only olives, oranges, and lemons. By his order the oranges and lemons were taxed so heavily that the poor peasant owner made nothing from his toil; his olives, also, must be ground at the 'Prince's mill,' where a higher price was demanded than elsewhere. Finally an even more odious monopoly was established: all subjects were compelled to purchase the 'Prince's bread,' which, made from cheap grain bought on the docks of Marseilles and Genoa, was often unfit to eat. So severe were the laws that any traveller entering the principality must throw away at the boundary line all bread he might have with him, and the captain of a vessel having on board a single slice upon arrival in port was heavily fined. This state of things lasted twenty-five years, during which period the Prince in Paris spent annually his eighty thousand dollars, gained from this poor little domain of eight or nine thousand souls." The Professor in his heat stood still, and we all stood still with him. The Mentonnais, looking down from their high windows and up from their dark little doors, no doubt wondered what we were talking about; they little knew it was their own story.
"A revolution made by bread. And ours was made by tea," observed Janet, thoughtfully.
"We need now only one made by butter, to be complete," said Inness.
Again the Professor scrutinized him, but discovered nothing.
I, however, discovered something, although not from Inness; I discovered why Janet had wished to pass a second time through that Rue Longue. For here was the French artist sketching the old mansion, and with him (she could not have known this, of course; but chance always favored Janet) were the two Englishmen, the respectful gazers of the breakfast-table, sketching also. There were therefore six artistic eyes instead of two to dwell upon her as she approached, passed, and went onward, her slender figure outlined against the light coming through the archway beyond, old St. Julian's Gate, a remnant of feudal fortification. Artists are not slack in the use of their eyes; an "artistic gaze" is not considered a stare. I was obliged to repeat this axiom to Baker, who did not appreciate it, but looked as though he would like to go back and artistically demolish those gazers. He contented himself, however, with the remark that water-color sketches were "weak, puling daubs," and then he went on through the old archway as majestically as he could.
"One of the features of Mentone seems to be the number of false windows carefully painted on the outside of the houses, windows adorned with blinds, muslin curtains, pots of flowers, and even gay rugs hanging over the sill," said Margaret.
"And then the frescos," I added – "landscapes, trees, gods and goddesses, in the most brilliant colors, on the side of the house."
"I like it," said Mrs. Clary; "it is so tropical."
"You commend falsity, then," said Miss Graves. "What can be more false than a false rug?"
We went homeward by the sea-wall, and saw some boys coming up from the beach with a basket of sea-urchins. "They eat them, you know," said Mrs. Clary.
"Is that tropical too?" said Janet, shuddering.
"It is, after all, but a difference in custom," observed the Professor. "I myself have eaten puppies in China, and found them not unpalatable."
Janet surveyed him; then fell behind and joined Inness and Baker.
Some fishermen on the beach were talking to two women with red handkerchiefs on their heads, who were leaning over the sea-wall. "Their language is a strange patois," said the Professor; "it is composed of a mixture of Italian, French, Spanish, and even Arabic."
"But the people themselves are thoroughly Italian, I think, in spite of the French boundary line," said Margaret. "They are a handsome race, with their dark eyes, thick hair, and rich coloring."
"I have never bestowed much thought upon beauty per se," responded the Professor. "The imperishable mind has far more interest."
"How much of the imperishable M. do you possess, Miss Trescott?" I heard Inness murmur.
"Breakfast" was served at one o'clock in the large dining-room, and we found ourselves opposite the two English artists, and a young lady whom they called "Miss Elaine."
"Elaine is bad enough; but 'Miss Elaine'!" said Margaret aside to me.
However, Miss Elaine seemed very well satisfied with herself and her Tennysonian title. She was a short, plump blonde, with a high color, and I could see that she regarded Janet with pity as she noted her slender proportions and delicate complexion in the one exhaustive glance with which girls survey each other when they first meet. We were some time at the table, but during the first five minutes both of the artists succeeded in offering some slight service to Mrs. Trescott which gave an opportunity for opening a conversation. The taller of the two, called "Verney" by his friend, advised for the afternoon an expedition up the Cornice Road to the "Pont St. Louis," and on "to Italy."
"But that will be too far, will it not?" said Mrs. Trescott.
"Oh no; to Italy! to Italy!" said Janet, with enthusiasm. Verney now explained that Italy was but ten minutes' walk from the hotel, and Janet was, of course, duly astonished. But not more astonished than the Professor, who, having told her the same fact not a half-hour before, could not comprehend how she should so soon have forgotten it.
"And if we are but 'ten minutes' walk from Italy' – a phrase so often repeated – what of it?" said Miss Graves to Margaret. "We are simply ten minutes' walk from a most uncleanly land." Miss Graves always wore a gray worsted shawl, and took no wine; in spite of the sunshine, therefore, she preserved a frosty appearance.
