It is, in truth, fair, this land of Provence; but fair with the sad, subtle beauty of a dream — dream of splendour, of chivalry and daring deeds, of troubadours and noble ladies; fair with the romance of undying traditions, of Courts of Love and gallant minstrels, of King René and lovely Marguerite. Fair because it is sad and silent, like a gentle and beautiful mother whose children have gone out into the great world to seek fortunes in richer climes, whilst she has remained alone in the old nest, waiting with sorrow in her heart and arms ever outstretched in loving welcome in case they should return; tending and cherishing the faded splendours of yesterday; and burying With reverence and tears, one by one, the treas ures that once had been her pride, but which the cruel hand of time had slowly turned to dust.
