I spent but a few hours at Carcassonne; but those hours had a rounded felicity, and I cannot do better than transcribe from my note-book the little record made at the moment.  Vitiated as it may be by crudity and incoherency, it has at any rate the freshness of a great emotion.  This is the best quality that a reader may hope to extract from a narrative in which “useful information” and technical lore even of the most general sort are completely absent.  For Carcassonne is moving, beyond a doubt; and the traveller who in the course of a little tour in France may have felt himself urged, in melancholy moments, to say that on the whole the disappointments are as numerous as the satisfactions, must admit that there can be nothing better than this.

The country after you leave Toulouse continues to be charming; the more so that it merges its flatness in the distant Cevennes on one side, and on the other, far away on your right, in the richer range of the Pyrénées.  Olives and cypresses, pergolas and vines, terraces on the roofs of houses, soft, iridescent mountains, a warm yellow light ­what more could the difficult tourist want?  He left his luggage at the station, warily determined to look at the inn before committing himself to it.  It was so evident (even to a cursory glance) that it might easily have been much better, that he simply took his way to the town, with the whole of a superb afternoon before him.  When I say the town, I mean the towns; there being two at Carcassonne, perfectly distinct, and each with excellent claims to the title.  They have settled the matter between them, however, and the elder, the shrine of pilgrimage, to which the other is but a stepping-stone, or even, as I may say, a humble door-mat, takes the name of the Cite.  You see nothing of the Cite from the station; it is masked by the agglomeration of the ville-basse, which is relatively (but only relatively) new.  A wonderful avenue of acacias leads to it from the station ­leads past it, rather, and conducts you to a little high-backed bridge over the Aude, beyond which, detached and erect, a distinct mediaeval silhouette, the Cite presents itself.  Like a rival shop on the invidious side of a street, it has “no connection” with the establishment across the way, although the two places are united (if old Carcassonne may be said to be united to anything) by a vague little rustic faubourg.  Perched on its solid pedestal, the perfect detachment of the Cite is what first strikes you.  To take leave, without delay, of the ville-basse, I may say that the splendid acacias I have mentioned flung a summerish dusk over the place, in which a few scattered remains of stout walls and big bastions looked venerable and picturesque.  A little boulevard winds round the town, planted with trees and garnished with more benches than I ever saw provided by a soft-hearted municipality.  This precinct had a warm, lazy, dusty, southern look, as if the people sat out-of-doors a great deal and wandered about in the stillness of summer nights.  The figure of the elder town at these hours must be ghostly enough on its neighbouring hill.  Even by day it has the air of a vignette of Gustave Dore, a couplet of Victor Hugo.  It is almost too perfect ­as if it were an enormous model placed on a big green table at a museum.  A steep, paved way, grass-grown like all roads where vehicles never pass, stretches up to it in the sun.  It has a double enceinte, complete outer walls and complete inner (these, elaborately fortified, are the more curious); and this congregation of ramparts, towers, bastions, battlements, barbicans, is as fantastic and romantic as you please.  The approach I mention here leads to the gate that looks toward Toulouse ­the Porte de l’Aude.  There is a second, on the other side, called, I believe, the Porte Narbonnaise, a magnificent gate, flanked with towers thick and tall, defended by elaborate outworks; and these two apertures alone admit you to the place ­putting aside a small sally-port, protected by a great bastion, on the quarter that looks toward the Pyrénées.

As a votary, always, in the first instance, of a general impression, I walked all round the outer enceinte ­a process on the very face of it entertaining.  I took to the right of the Porte de l’Aude, without entering it, where the old moat has been filled in.  The filling-in of the moat has created a grassy level at the foot of the big grey towers, which, rising at frequent intervals, stretch their stiff curtain of stone from point to point:  the curtain drops without a fold upon the quiet grass, which was dotted here and there with a humble native dozing away the golden afternoon.  The natives of the elder Carcassonne are all humble; for the core of the Cite has shrunken and decayed, and there is little life among the ruins.  A few tenacious labourers who work in the neighbouring fields or in the ville-basse, and sundry octogenarians of both sexes, who are dying where they have lived and contribute much to the pictorial effect ­these are the principal inhabitants.  The process of converting the place from an irresponsible old town into a conscious “specimen” has of course been attended with eliminations; the population has, as a general thing, been restored away.  I should lose no time in saying that restoration is the great mark of the Cite.  M. Viollet-lé-Duc has worked his will upon it, put it into perfect order, revived the fortifications in every detail.  I do not pretend to judge the performance, carried out on a scale and in a spirit which really impose themselves on the imagination.  Few architects have had such a chance, and M. Viollet-lé-Duc must have been the envy of the whole restoring fraternity.  The image of a more crumbling Carcassonne rises in the mind, and there is no doubt that forty years ago the place was more affecting.  On the other hand, as we see it to-day it is a wonderful evocation; and if there is a great deal of new in the old, there is plenty of old in the new.  The repaired crenellations, the inserted patches of the walls of the outer circle, sufficiently express this commixture.  My walk brought me into full view of the Pyrénées, which, now that the sun had begun to sink and the shadows to grow long, had a wonderful violet glow.  The platform at the base of the walls has a greater width on this side, and it made the scene more complete.  Two or three old crones had crawled out of the Porte Narbonnaise to examine the advancing visitor; and a very ancient peasant, lying there with his back against a tower, was tending half a dozen lean sheep.  A poor man in a very old blouse, crippled and with crutches lying beside him, had been brought out and placed on a stool, where he enjoyed the afternoon as best he might.  He looked so ill and so patient that I spoke to him; found that his legs were paralysed and he was quite helpless.  He had formerly been seven years in the army, and had made the campaign of Mexico with Bazaine.  Born in the old Cite, he had come back there to end his days.  It seemed strange, as he sat there with those romantic walls behind him and the great picture of the Pyrénées in front, to think that he had been across the seas to the far-away new world, had made part of a famous expedition, and was now a cripple at the gate of the mediaeval city where he had played as a child.  All this struck me as a great deal of history for so modest a figure ­a poor little figure that could only just unclose its palm for a small silver coin.

He was not the only acquaintance I made at Carcassonne.  I had not pursued my circuit of the walls much farther when I encountered a person of quite another type, of whom I asked some question which had just then presented itself, and who proved to be the very genius of the spot.  He was a sociable son of the ville-basse, a gentleman, and, as I afterwards learned, an employe at the prefecture ­a person, in short, much esteemed at Carcassonne. (I may say all this, as he will never read these pages.) He had been ill for a month, and in the company of his little dog was taking his first airing; in his own phrase, he was amoureux-fou de la Cite ­he could lose no time in coming back to it.  He talked of it indeed as a lover, and, giving me for half an hour the advantage of his company, showed me all the points of the place. (I speak here always of the outer enceinte; you penetrate to the inner ­which is the specialty of Carcassonne and the great curiosity ­only by application at the lodge of the regular custodian, a remarkable functionary, who, half an hour later, when I had been introduced to him by my friend the amateur, marched me over the fortifications with a tremendous accompaniment of dates and technical terms.) My companion pointed out to me in particular the traces of different periods in the structure of the walls.  There is a portentous amount of history embedded in them, beginning with Romans and Visigoths; here and there are marks of old breaches hastily repaired.  We passed into the town ­into that part of it not included in the citadel.  It is the queerest and most fragmentary little place in the world, as everything save the fortifications is being suffered to crumble away in order that the spirit of M. Viollet-lé-Duc alone may pervade it and it may subsist simply as a magnificent shell.  As the leases of the wretched little houses fall in, the ground is cleared of them; and a mumbling old woman approached me in the course of my circuit, inviting me to condole with her on the disappearance of so many of the hovels which in the last few hundred years (since the collapse of Carcassonne as a stronghold) had attached themselves to the base of the walls, in the space between the two circles.  These habitations, constructed of materials taken from the ruins, nestled there snugly enough.  This intermediate space had therefore become a kind of street, which has crumbled in turn, as the fortress has grown up again.  There are other streets beside, very diminutive and vague, where you pick your way over heaps of rubbish and become conscious of unexpected faces looking at you out of windows as detached as the cherubic heads.  The most definite thing in the place was the little cafe, where the waiters, I think, must be the ghosts of the old Visigoths; the most definite, that is, after the little chateau and the little cathedral.  Everything in the Cite is little; you can walk round the walls in twenty minutes.  On the drawbridge of the chateau, which, with a picturesque old face, flanking towers, and a dry moat, is to-day simply a bare caserne, lounged half a dozen soldiers, unusually small.  Nothing could be more odd than to see these objects enclosed in a receptacle which has much of the appearance of an enormous toy.  The Cite and its population vaguely reminded me of an immense Noah’s ark.