FAREWELLS.
May.
THESE were the last days at Mentone for which we came back, and they would
have been very melancholy, if we could ever have realized that we were going
away, before the time came. But, for so many months the rest of the world had
been shut out, and our interests and pleasures had been so concentrated in the
place we were in, that we had almost forgotten the outside world, and the
necessity for returning to it.
In our last expedition to Ventimiglia, we did not drive as far as the town,
but left the carriage at the entrance of a rocky path to the left, a little
beyond the village of St. Agostino, and scrambled up the hills from thence,
through the wild thyme and rosemary, for a distance of about a mile-and-a-half,
to where the Claudian castle with its mouldering towers, stands on the highest
spur of the yellow tufa rock. All around is a chaos of broken mountains: it is
an utter solitude, and the scenery is wild in the highest degree. A rugged path
leads down from the castle to the gate of the town near the Romanesque church.
Our last ride at Mentone was with Theresine Ravellina, through the pine woods
to the little chapel of Santa Lucia. That mountain path had never looked so
lovely, the sea seen through the trees was of the deepest blue, and nightingales
sang in all the thick parts of the wood, which were carpeted with genista and
heath, mingled with lilies and amaranthes, and all the orchideous flowers of
May.
Then came the last day, and the farewells, with showers of bouquets from
every one, rich and poor. Theresine, with little Pauline her daughter, brought
immense ones, which they bestowed upon us, with declarations that they should
pray on every fete day that they might see us again, though they did not suppose
they ever should. "Mais," added Theresine as usual, "si le bon
Dieu le veut, il ne faut pas se facher."
