If there had not been someone to say and feel that, every turn of the
tyres would have been an insult to Provence, who had put on her
loveliest dress to bid us welcome. Among the olives and almonds, young
trees of vivid yellow spouted pyramids of thin, gold flame against a sky
of violet, and the indefinable fragrance of spring was in the air. We
met handsome, up-standing peasants in red or blue _beréts_, singing
melodiously in _patois_--Provençal, perhaps--as they walked beside their
string of stout cart-horses. And the songs, and the dark eyes of the
singers, and the wonderful horned harness which the noble beasts wore
with dignity, all seemed to answer us: "Yes, you are in Provence."

We talked of old Provence, my Fellow Worm and I, while our master and
mistress wearied for their luncheon; of the men and women who had passed
along this road which we travelled. What would Madame de Sévigné, or
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, or George Sand have said if a blue car like
ours had suddenly flashed into their vision? We agreed that, in any
case, not one of them--or any other person of true imagination--would
call abominable a wonderful piece of mechanism with the power of
flattening mountains into plains, triumphing over space, annihilating
distance; a machine combining fiercest energy with the mildest docility.
No, only old fogies would close their hearts to a machine fit for the
gods, and pride themselves on being motophobes forever. We felt
ourselves, car and all, to be worthy of this magic way, lined with
blossoms that played like rosy children among the strange rocks
characteristic of Provence--rocks which seemed to have boiled up all hot
out of the earth, and then to have vied with each other in hardening
into most fantastic shapes. Even we felt ourselves worthy to meet a few
troubadours, as we drew near to Aix, where once they held their Courts
of Love; and we had talked ourselves into an almost dangerously romantic
mood by the time we arrived at the hotel in the Cours Mirabeau.