After witnessing the performance given by the Comédie Française in the antique theatre at Orange, we determined—my companion and I—if ever another opportunity of the kind offered, to attend, be the material difficulties what they might.  
The theatrical¹ “stars” in their courses proved favorable to the accomplishment² of this vow³.  Before the year ended it was whispered to us that the “Cadets de Gascogne” were planning a tram through the Cevennes Mountains and their native Languedoc—a sort of lay pilgrimage to famous historic and literary shrines⁴, a voyage to be enlivened by much crowning of busts⁵ and reciting of verses in the open air, and incidentally, by the eating of Gascony dishes and the degustation of delicate local wines; the whole to culminate⁶ with a representation in the arena⁷ at Béziers of Déjanire, Louis Gallet’s and Saint-Saëns’s latest work, under the personal supervision⁸ of those two masters.
 
A tempting⁹ programme, was it not, in these days of cockney tours and “Cook” couriers?  At any rate, one that we, with plenty of time on our hands and a weakness for out-of-the-way corners and untrodden paths, found it impossible to resist.
 
Rostand, in Cyrano de Bergerac, has shown us the “Cadets” of Molière’s time, a fighting, rhyming, devil-may-care band, who wore their hearts on their sleeves and chips on their stalwart shoulders; much such a brotherhood¹⁰, in short, as we love to imagine that Shakespeare, Kit¹¹ Marlowe, Greene, and their intimates formed when they met at the “Ship” to celebrate a success or drink a health to the drama.
 
The men who compose the present society (which has now for many years borne a name only recently made famous by M. Rostand’s genius) come delightfully¹² near realizing the happy conditions of other days, and—less the fighting—form as joyous¹³ and picturesque¹⁴ a company as their historic elders.  They are for the most part Southern-born youths, whose interests and ambitions centre around the stage, devotees at the altar of Melpomene, ardent¹⁶ lovers of letters and kindred arts, and proud of the debt that literary France owes to Gascony.
 
It is the pleasant custom of this coterie¹⁷ to meet on winter evenings in unfrequented cafés, transformed by them for the time into clubs, where they recite new-made verses, discuss books and plays, enunciate¹⁸ paradoxes¹⁹ that make the very waiters shudder²⁰, and, between their “bocks,” plan vast revolutions in the world of literature.
 
As the pursuit of “letters” is, if anything, less lucrative²¹ in France than in other countries, the question of next day’s dinner is also much discussed among these budding Molières, who are often forced to learn early in their careers, when meals have been meagre, to satisfy themselves with rich rhymes and drink their fill of flowing verse.
 
From time to time older and more successful members of the corporation stray back into the circle, laying aside their laurel crowns and Olympian pose, in the society of the new-comers to Bohemia.  These honorary members enjoy nothing more when occasion offers than to escape from the toils²² of greatness and join the “Cadets” in their summer journeys to and fro in France, trips which are made to combine the pleasures of an outing with the aims of a literary campaign.  It was an invitation to join one of these tramps that tempted²³ my friend and me away from Paris at the season when that city is at its best.  Being unable, on account of other engagements, to start with the cohort from the capital, we made a dash for it and caught them up at Carcassonne during the fêtes that the little Languedoc city was offering to its guests.
 
After having seen Aigues Mortes, it was difficult to believe that any other place in Europe could suggest more vividly²⁴ the days of military feudalism.  St. Louis’s tiny city is, however, surpassed by Carcassonne!
 
Thanks to twenty years of studious restoration by Viollet le Duc, this antique jewel shines in its setting of slope and plain as perfect to-day (seen from the distance) as when the Crusaders started from its crenelated gates for the conquest of the Holy Sepulchre.  The acropolis of Carcassonne is crowned with Gothic battlements, the golden polygon²⁵ of whose walls, rising from Roman foundations and layers of ruddy Visigoth brick to the stately marvel²⁶ of its fifty towers, forms a whole that few can view unmoved.
 
We found the Cadets lunching on the platform of the great western keep, while a historic pageant²⁷ organized in their honor was winding²⁸ through the steep mediæval streets—a cavalcade²⁹ of archers³⁰, men at arms, and many-colored troubadours, who, after effecting a triumphal entrance to the town over lowered drawbridges, mounted to unfurl their banner on our tower.  As the gaudy³¹ standard unfolded on the evening air, Mounet-Sully’s incomparable voice breathed the very soul of the “Burgraves” across the silent plain and down through the echoing corridors below.  While we were still under the impression of the stirring lines, he changed his key and whispered:—
 
Le soir tombe. . . . L’heure douce
Qui s’èloigne sans secousse,
Pose à peine sur la mousse
      Ses pieds.
Un jour indècis persiste,
Et le crèpuscule triste
Ouvre ses yeux d’améthyste
      Mouillès.
 
Night came on ere the singing and reciting ended, a balmy Southern evening, lit by a thousand fires from tower and battlement and moat, the old walls glowing red against the violet sky.
 
Picture this scene to yourself, reader mine, and you will understand the enthusiasm of the artists and writers in our clan³².  It needed but little imagination then to reconstruct the past and fancy one’s self back in the days when the “Trancavel” held this city against the world.
 
Sleep that night was filled with a strange phantasmagoria of crenelated châteaux and armored knights³³, until the bright Provençal sunlight and the call for a hurried departure dispelled³⁴ such illusions.  By noon we were far away from Carcassonne, mounting the rocky slopes of the Cevennes amid a wild and noble landscape; the towering cliffs of the “Causses,” zebraed by zig-zag paths, lay below us, disclosing glimpses of fertile valley and vine-engarlanded plain.
 
One asks one’s self in wonder why these enchanting³⁵ regions are so unknown.  En route our companions were like children fresh from school, taking haphazard³⁶ meals at the local inns and clambering gayly into any conveyance³⁷ that came to hand.  As our way led us through the Cevennes country, another charm gradually stole over the senses.
 
“I imagine that Citheron must look like this,” murmured Catulle Mendès, as we stood looking down from a sun-baked eminence³⁸, “with the Gulf³⁹ of Corinth there where you see that gleam of water.”  As he spoke⁴⁰ he began declaiming the pass............