Above the ruddy soil of the terraces flames that joyous natural punch which intoxicates the insects and the flowers and dazzles our eyes and browns our faces.

The grape is beading, its tendrils fall in a veil of threads whose delicacy puts to shame the lace-makers.

Beside the house blue larkspur, nasturtium, and sweet-peas are blooming.

From a distance orange-trees and tuberoses scent the air.

After the poetic exhalations of the woods (a gradual preparation) came the delectable pastilles of this botanic seraglio.
Standing on the portico, like the queen of flowers, behold a woman robed in white, with hair unpowdered, holding a parasol lined with white silk, but herself whiter than the silk, whiter than the lilies at her feet, whiter than the starry jasmine that climbed the balustrade,--a woman, a Frenchwoman born in Russia, who said as I approached her, "I had almost given you up." She had seen me as I left the copse.