I had both, and made the most of
them.
When her ladyship's shoe-strings and stay-laces were off my mind and in
my coat pocket, we wandered leisurely about the modern part of the
wonderful town, which has been busier through the centuries in making
history than almost any other in France. Seen by daylight, I no longer
resented the existence of a new--comparatively new--Avignon. The pretty
little theatre, with its dignified statues of Corneill and Moliere,
seemed to invite me kindly to go in and listen to a play by the
splendidly bewigged gentlemen sitting in stone chairs on either side of
the door. The clock tower with its "Jacquemart" who stiffly struck the
quarter hours with an automatic arm, while his wife criticized the
gesture, commanded me to stop and watch his next stroke; and the
curiosity shops offered me the most alluring bargains. People we met
seemed to have plenty of time on their hands, and to be very
good-natured, as if rich Provencal cooking agreed with their digestions.
Sure that the Turnours would be at the Palace of the Popes or in the
Cathedral, we went to the Museum, and searched in vain among a riot of
Roman remains for the tomb of Petrarch's Laura, which guide-books
promised.
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