In the center of it was an abrupt and bare hill, jutting into the sea, sustaining on its peak the basilica and square-sided tower of _Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde._ Marseilles was the metropolis of the Mediterranean, the terminal for all the navigators of the _mare nostrum_.

In its bay with choppy waves were various yellowish islands fringed with foam and upon one of these the strong towers of the romantic _Chateau d'If_.
All the crew, from Ferragut down to the lowest seaman, used to look upon this city somewhat as their own when they saw, appearing in the background of the bay, its forests of masts and its conglomeration of gray edifices upon which sparkled the Byzantian domes of the new cathedral.

Around Marseilles there opened out a semi-circle of dry and barren heights brightly colored by the sun of Provence and spotted by white cottages and hamlets, and the pleasure villas of the merchants of the city.

On beyond this semi-circle the horizon was bounded by an amphitheater of rugged and gloomy mountains.
On former trips the sight of the gigantic gilded Virgin which glistened like a shaft of fire on the top of _Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde_ shed an atmosphere of joy over the bridge of the vessel.
"Marseilles, Toni," the captain used to say gayly.

"I invite you to a _bouillabaisse_ at Pascal's." And Toni's hairy countenance would break into a greedy smile, seeing in anticipation the famous restaurant of the port, its twilight shadows smelling of shell-fish and spicy sauces, and upon the table the deep dish of fish with its succulent broth tinged with saffron.
But now Ulysses had lost his vigorous joy in living.