The actual distance from Luz to Bareges is barely four miles, and yet so great is the height of the latter (1600 ft. above Luz) that it was nearly one o'clock when we pulled up at the Cercle des Etrangers—the only specimen of a hotel or cafe open—for our lunch.

After a pleasant meal we made a move to inspect the town and its environs, and were not long in forming an opinion, at any rate, on the former, which we think most visitors at this season of the year would be inclined to endorse. One long ascending street lined with houses all shut up, occasional breaks where a narrow alley or the roads to the hospitals and promenades branched off, the bathing establishments under much-needed repair, the dirty-looking river dashing down behind, on the left; the beech boughs clad in dead leaves rustling on the slopes, in the opposite direction; and a few natives here and there, very untidy and sleepy-looking, as though with difficulty awaking from the "dormouse" state, complete the picture of Bareges, which we need hardly add is in itself a most desolate and dreary-looking place. In mid-summer, with the sun shining and the trees in full leaf, an improvement in the scene would be noticeable; but very few, except invalids specially recommended for a course of the waters, are at anytime likely to stay there more than a few hours.



We took the road leading up, to the right of the "Grand Etablissement," to the Promenade Horizontale, the great summer rendezvous, and passing the "Hospice de Ste. Eugenie" began the ascent up the easy zigzags of the "Allee Verte." We had not made much progress when we startled, from what was doubtless a contemplative mood, a very fine jay. He did not seem to like the disturbance at all, but kept flying from branch to branch in the vicinity, repeatedly uttering his guttural cries.

As the tenor of his thoughts—uttered in rather a shrill treble—seemed to bear considerably on topics of general interest, in spite of the apparent selfishness that was the key-note of the whole, we think it expedient to let posterity enjoy the enlightenment we received from

"THE JAY OF BAREGES."

Lawks a mussy! and shiver my feathers! Why this is a wonderful sight; In spite of my earnest endeavours, I can't quite get over my fright.

'Tis so long since the strangers departed, They ne'er would return, I had thought; So no shame at their coming I started, Though perchance I felt worse than I ought.

Still to think through the days cold and lonely I've wandered about at my will, With no one to chase me, and only The need to prevent getting chill.

Well, I say—when I think of the quiet And rest that is now at its close— I have doubts of enduring the riot After such a long time of repose.

It is not that I hate to see pleasure, It is not that the world I detest; But I like to have comfort and leisure, And not to be teased and oppress'd.

I don't mind the smell from the fountains, —Though a rotten-egg scent is not sweet— For I always can fly to the mountains And seek some umbrageous retreat.

Then the season for shooting is over, So the sportsmen[1] will leave me alone, And I'll pose as a Go(u)ld Jay in clover, Avoiding a dollarous tone.

To my doctor, perhaps, 'twould be better The final decision to leave; And I'll follow his choice to the letter, He's a bird I can always believe.

That reminds me 'tis time for my dinner, And as I don't wish it to wait, As sure as I'm saint and no sinner, I'll be off at my very best rate.

[Footnote 1: The jay, with all its sophistry, did not apparently know that French sportsmen only kill what they can eat, and therefore its fears would in any case have been groundless.]

And with a concluding chuckle the bright bird disappeared. We were by this time beyond the "Forest Administration" hut, and close upon the snow, which lay in narrow but deep drifts among the trees, the wood anemones and fine hepaticas growing in groups close by.

As we gradually progressed, the snow occupied the greater part of the way, and we were forced to betake ourselves to the extreme edge; and when at last we emerged into the Vallee de Lienz, trees and branches had to be scrambled over to avoid a wetting, although we were obliged to cross one or two drifts after all. Getting clear of the trees, we came in full view of the imposing Pic de Lienz (7501 ft.) on the left, and the rounded summit of the Pic d'Ayre (7931 ft.). Passing the two cabins constructed among the rocks in the open, we crossed the swift brook and began the ascent of the inferior but well-wooded hill below the Pic de Lienz. There is no proper path up to this Pic (as to most others), and the grass is rather bad for walking; but the views up the valley to the mighty Pic de Neouville (10,146 ft.), and the whole range behind the Pic d'Ayre, are very grand. We only went to the bend just before the summit of the Col, resting awhile among a huge pile of boulders, brightened by bushes of the mountain rhododendron, before commencing to descend. A fine specimen of the rather rare Anemone vernalis was a prize that fell to us as we carefully balanced ourselves on the slippery tufts which so often, carrying the feet along at an increased speed, cause the owner to find himself rather unpleasantly acquainted with mother earth. However, we reached the huts again in safety, and made considerably shorter cuts on our way back to the town, encountering a solitary sheep with a very young lamb at one of our sharp turns.

We arrived at the cafe just in time for tea, and then the horses were put in and we rattled back, having, in spite of the barrenness of Bareges, spent a very pleasant day.



CHAPTER VII.

ST. SAUVEUR.

Pont de Pescadere—Sassis—Gave de Gavarnie—St. Sauveur—Hotel de France—Pont Napoleon—Napoleon's pillar—Bee orchids—Chapel of Solferino—The view from thence—Ne'er a hermit but for gold—Luz Cemetery—Luz Post Office—Short cuts—Pharmacie Claverie—Jardin a l'Anglaise—Ascent of Pic de Bergons—Villenave—The shepherds' huts—Lunch—Snow, its use and abuse—On foot—"Excelsior"—Dangerous footing—The last crest but one—The view—Gavarnie and Argeles in sight—A lazy guide—A "fast" bit—Mountain flowers—Mr. Sydney to the fore—A short walk and a good view—To Sazos and Grust—The bathing establishments—Sazos: the old church—The belfry—Chiming extraordinary—Various promenades—Gems of hill and vale.

At the bridge known as the Pont de Pescadere the road from Pierrefitte forks; the branch to the left leads to Luz, while the road to St. Sauveur branches off to the right, and passes through the village of Sassis, above which is the more important one of Sazos. Then, keeping to the riverside till within half a mile of the town, it throws out a branch over the Gave de Gavarnie to Luz, and bending in the opposite direction, winds steeply past the baths to the hotels.

Like many of the villages in Japan, and especially along the great Nakasendo, St. Sauveur possesses one single street. The resemblance continues further with the fine scenery, but there it ends. The look of the houses and the comfort of the Hotel de France find, alas! no parallel yet in the interior of that wonderful country.



We came to St. Sauveur direct without stopping at Luz, but as the latter is the larger town—in fact the mainstay of the former, and also the nearer to Pierrefitte—we have given it precedence. For situation and all other qualifications, except as a residence in winter, St. Sauveur easily bears away the palm. The morning after our arrival, when the sun was shining brightly, we walked up through the remainder of the diminutive town to the Pont Napoleon, one of the most remarkable bridges in the Pyrenees. The bridge itself is 216 feet above the river, and sixty-nine feet wide; but it is not so much the construction —though that is well carried out—as the position, which especially attracts on a lovely spring morning. The river, of a beautiful light green tint, wandering down the valley towards Pierrefitte, the trees with varied foliage crowding the slopes above, the glimpse of Saint Sauveur with its church, and the hills with the snowpeaks beyond, on either side—made such a glorious ensemble as we were not slow to appreciate.



But this was not all—nor nearly all—for not only had we the view of the grand rocky gorge from which the river issues above, but we could also take the easy gradient down to the riverside itself, which leads from the near side of the bridge, as well as survey the loveliness from the terrace at the base of the arch, on the side beyond. Having crossed this fine piece of engineering, and passed the pillar surmounted by an eagle erected in honour of Napoleon III. and the Empress Eugenie, we found the road led at right angles in both directions. The one to the right, to Gavarnie, we hoped to take thither later; the one to the left, leading to Luz, we followed there and then. After curving once or twice within view of the bridge, it bifurcates, forming an upper and a lower route, both of which lead to Luz, if desired. The lower, which is the direct route from Gavarnie to Luz, we abstained from taking, preferring the upper road to the right, which leads past fields resplendent with flowers (among which the "bee" orchid is noticeable), to the chapel of Solferino.

The view from the hill on which the chapel is built is an excellent one. Looking towards Luz, several small villages may be seen up the Bareges valley, with the Pic de Mont Aigu, and the Pic d'Ayre (7931 feet) on the right, and—immediately over against the town—the Pic de Nere on the left. Looking towards Pierrefitte, other small villages, and the whole of the Luz valley; on the left, St. Sauveur, and, above the almost indistinguishable village of Sassis, the Col de Riou, with the Pic de Viscos beyond. Looking towards the Pont Napoleon, the Pic de Bergons (6792 ft.) towers up on the left, and on the right may be easily noted the toothed Pic du Lac Grand the Col d'Aubiste, and the loftier Pic (8863 ft.) of the same name, besides a glimpse of pastures and foaming cascades as well. There is very little in the chapel itself except its history and its cold atmosphere. It is supposed to be an exact copy of the ancient Hermitage of St. Peter, which formerly stood on the same spot. The bones of the last good man, for whom "gaieties had no attraction whatever," and who consequently shut himself up for "years and years" in the dismal building, were collected by Napoleon III.'s command, and buried under the statue erected in front. There is a woman that calls herself the guardian (not angel) of the place, and demands a small gratuity in exchange for any amount of unnecessary talking; judging by her appearance, we decided she was not a hermit nor a particularly small eater either, though her stature was decidedly diminutive. Two tracks lead from this hill to Luz. One winding down on the left forms the branch route to St. Sauveur, the other, to the right—which we took—passes the cemetery, and leaving the new church in the same direction, leads to the back of the ancient fane of the Templars, through the town.

After transacting a little business at the post-office (there is none at St. Sauveur except in the season), which stands in one of the principal streets traversed on the route to Bareges, we returned to St. Sauveur by another way. The ordinary short cut from Luz to St. Sauveur crosses the bridge over the Gave leaving the Gavarnie road on the left, and turning sharply up a short distance beyond the river, joins the high road above the "Pharmacie Clavarie," near an ornamental pillar. We, however, bore up the Gavarnie road till, reaching a cottage, we pursued the narrow path obviously conducting to the river, over which a wooden bridge—whence a pretty view can be obtained,—leads to the Jardin a l'Anglaise. This garden, much frequented during the summer months, brought us in turn, by means of zigzags and steps, close to our hotel, and though it may be slightly longer than the "short cut," we certainly found it prettier and more agreeable.

There is one excursion from St. Sauveur, which is not very difficult nor laborious, and which well repays the certain amount of exertion that is at all times associated with ascents. This is the ascent of the Pic de Bergons. Although we could tell before we started that the snow would prevent us from reaching the summit, we nevertheless had hopes of arriving very near it; and finding a beautiful day, as it were, staring us in the face, we ordered round the horses and a somewhat aged guide, and were in motion by ten o'clock. Reaching the further end of the Pont Napoleon, we found the path striking off immediately before us, and the work began. The gradient for several minutes rose rather sharply, and as the road was anything but a pleasant or even one, the labour for the horses was considerable; but they went very willingly, until, at our arrival at a couple of cottages, we halted to give them a few minutes' rest.

Until then we had been winding up the face of the hill, but after leaving the cottages, the track bearing round to the side brought us above Luz, over which and the whole valley we had a splendid view. Not far from this point, the path from Luz, via Villenave, joined in, but no improvement in the general unevenness and stoniness of it was effected. With a barren gorge on our left, and the green pastures with the snow-peaks of Bugaret and Maucapera towering behind them, straight before us, we followed the disagreeable zigzags, our horses always on the very edge, as though courting our overthrow, till, finding on reaching the "cabanes" some shepherds kindly and well disposed, we repaired to the shelter that their cow-house wall afforded, to eat our lunch. The meal was a success, as such meals, when the victuals are good and the appetites hearty, usually are, and the vin ordinaire, cooled to a pleasant extent with snow from a neighbouring drift, tasted like nectar. But the same snow which was so delightful in the claret, interfered sadly with our locomotion, and having finished our luncheon, we had next to dispose of our horses, and commence the rest of the ascent on foot. Striking straight up from the hut, we soon attained a narrow track winding up the wooded hill to the left, and without much difficulty or exertion, found ourselves within view of St. Sauveur, and a great part of the mountains and valleys. However, we were yet some way from the summit, or even the highest attainable point (the summit being unattainable on account of snow), so we pulled ourselves into form, and whispering to one another to have "courage," we moved upwards again. A small rocky backbone was next attained, but still the higher crests remained, and seemed to say, "Excelsior." The guide got lazy, and preferred to study a little geology to mounting any higher, so we left him to pursue his researches and strode on. Between the next point, gained after some little work, and the last crete below the actual summit, several banks of snow lay, and rendered progress difficult. In two places a sharp decline, with no chance of clutching anything in case of falling, presented itself to dull our hopes, but by dint of using the alpenstocks well, and making deep tracks in the semi-melting snow, we reached the desired crest, with nothing but the white and inaccessible summit above. The view was a very fine one, and fully justified all expectations, although our lazy guide was effectually shut out from our gaze. The miniature town of St. Sauveur looked like a tiny model, with every accessory that could add to its charming position. To the left, high above us, the mighty Barbe de Bouch (9624 ft.) stood out just below the clouds, in which the still loftier and very stony Pic d'Ardiden (9804 ft.) was partially hidden. Further in the same direction the familiar forms of the Pics d'Aubiste and Litouese, and further yet, the Tour and Casque of the Gavarnie Cirque, stood out as snowy and as clear as the most eager sightseer could wish. Over the town itself the Pic du Lacgrand, and down the valley to the right, the Col de Riou and the Pic de Viscos, were plainly visible; while the town of Argeles and the hills beyond it, required no glass to point out their position at the end of the splendid gorge. Over against Luz the Col d'Arbeousse and the Pic de Nere (7880 ft.); with the Pic Bugaret (8859 ft.), the Maucapera (8893 ft.), and the massive Mont Arrouye (10,299 ft.), facing them, above the hut where we had lunched, added their attractions to swell the beauty of our view.

When we thought we had really taken in all that we could, we did not stay on our lofty perch much longer, fearing the result of our guide's geological researches; however, we found him still fairly well, and very little less lazy, so took him for a little jolting down a rather "fast" bit, which not only woke him up, but brought us quickly down to our shepherd's hut again. Partly riding and partly walking, the rest of the descent was successfully accomplished, including the gathering of gentians, bee orchids, mountain violets, and both Polygalae; [Footnote: Polygala rosea and P. amara.] while Mr. Sydney triumphed in the very laudable effort of showing the lazy guide how things could be managed, by arriving at the foot of the mountain some twenty minutes before him. A very short trot brought us to the hotel in time for some half-past five tea, having taken seven and a half hours over our trip, including the hour spent for lunch.

Between the Hotel de France and the Pont Napoleon a narrow path strikes up to the right, almost opposite a large white house a short distance beyond the church; this we found a very pleasant quarter of an hour's walk, leading by an easy gradient to a good point of view. Box plants, with their bright leaves here and there changing into a rich red, lined the way, and many flowers, including gentians, added their charm. From the rock at which we terminated our walks, a fine view of the Pic de Bergons, two cascades, the gorge towards Gavarnie and St. Sauveur, the Pont Napoleon, and a small defile on the immediate right, was our reward.

Another pleasant promenade and not a very long one, which we much enjoyed, was to the villages of Sazos and Grust, in the direction of the ascent of the Col de Riou and the Pic de Viscos. We followed the high road down through the town, passing in turn the Roman-like and commodious baths, the path leading to the Hontalade establishment on the left, and the Pharmacie Claverie on the right; and just before the branch route from Luz joins in, took the left track up the side of the hill. Pretty views of the different valleys unfolded to our gaze as we continued on our way, while a splendid vista of villages lay before us when we reached the platform space on which an iron cross is erected, a short way below Sazos. The village itself, as well as that of Grust, which lies within easy distance above it, is a quaint, old-fashioned place. The church is the chief attraction; in fact, immediately Miss Blunt found herself within the ancient exterior portal, she demanded paper and pencil, and although all the paper forthcoming was the back of an envelope and a telegraph form, managed to turn out an efficient representation of the old Roman fane. In exploring it afterwards at our leisure, we were struck by several peculiarities which produced mingled feelings. Inside the doorway, two curious flights of steps lead to the narrow galleries and the belfry, the final flight being totally devoid of either "sweetness" or light. Having examined the bells and heard the clock strike three, we began the descent. In the darkness we certainly did clutch a vertical rope, but could that simple act—we ask in a whisper—have had such an unusual effect as causing the clock to repeat its striking? For, whether or not, before we reached the ground, the three strokes rang out again. The carving over the altar is good, and the general effect of the whole church is likewise; but the supposed model of the grotto at Lourdes, and the awful painting in the side altar on the left, certainly do not add to its beauty.

The children regarded us with inquisitive looks as we came away, but seemed to wish to keep at a safe distance. Whether the double striking of the clock had had a peculiar effect on them we did not, however, wait to inquire, but after taking a drink at the fountain, proceeded on our homeward way.

Any one making a lengthened stay can find out plenty of similarly enjoyable walks; in fact, one of St. Sauveur's chief charms lies in its favourable situation for such pursuits. The neighbourhood is very rich in flora, small jonquils, daffodils, oxslips, hyacinths, violets, polygala, potentilla, anemones, Ramondia pyrenaica, Primula farinosa, large and small gentians, linaria, and bee orchids being among the easiest to find.

Before we started on the great drive to Luchon, we successfully accomplished a delightful day's outing to Gavarnie, but as it is full of interest and majesty, we give it a chapter to itself.



CHAPTER VIII.

GAVARNIE.

A "falling glass"—The wonderful echo—Cascade Lassariou—Sia and its bridge—Pont de Desdouroucat—"Changing scenes"—Bugaret torrent—The Pimene—Bue—Gedre—Breche de Roland in the distance—The "Grotto"—Scenery at fivepence per head—Daffodils—Lofty summits—Cascade d'Arroudet—Chaos—Valley of the "Ten Thousand Rocks," Amoy—A dirty avalanche—The Sugar-loaf—Travellers' troubles —Importunate females—Hotel des Voyageurs—Poc—Guide or no guide—Chute de Lapaca—The guardian summits of the Cirque—Cascade du Marbore—Chandelles du Marbore—The Cirque—Its marvellous beauty—Reluctantly returning—"The Guide's Auction"—"Two women enough for a market, and three for a fair"—A Yankee tale—Sketching and flowers—Tempers and appetites.

There is no excursion from Luz or St. Sauveur for which it is so necessary to have a fine day, or which is so wonderfully unique, as that to the Cirque of Gavarnie. We were forced to wait several days; the barometer always, stupidly enough, wanting to fall, until on the third day of the moon it slowly began to rise, and gave us hopes for a start on the following morning. The following morning arrived, and with it a heavy fall of snow, decking the hills quite low down with a white mantle, and gloomily screening the view.

However, about nine o'clock, the sun burst forth, the clouds rose, the blue sky appeared, and we felt that our opportunity had come. The lunch and the landau, with four horses, were ordered for ten o'clock, and at 10.15 we were on our way. Through the town, past the church and over the fine Pont Napoleon we went, our hearts—eager to appreciate —finding no lack of food.

Keeping along the base of the Pic de Bergons, with the Pic du Lac Grand rivalling it on the other side of the defile, we soon sighted the chasm and cascade of Rioumaou on our left, and reached the Pas de l'Echelle. At 1 metre 50 centimetres, or 43/4 feet, from the extremity of the ornamental facing which marks the place, we pulled up, to try the magnificent echo, and were in no way disappointed. Our voices came back particularly clearly, but from the coach-box the sound was stronger. On ahead again, still by the base of the Pic de Bergons, with the mighty Col and Pic d'Aubiste (8863 ft.) majestic across the river; till, at the foot of the Pic, where the sparkling Cascade de Lassariou comes tumbling down, the wretched hamlet of Sia, with its "quatre moulins" and very fine bridge, broke into view. Traversing the Pont de Sia—distant about three miles from Luz and built when the new road was made two years ago—we kept the right side of the Gave, and, with the Pic de Litouese towering above us, reached the Pont de Desdouroucat (4 3/8 miles), and again passed to the opposite bank, leaving the remains of the old route on the side whence we came. The sky was clearing more and more, and before us, over Gavarnie, it was one pure expanse of blue. The gorge was very wild, but with a wildness of piled-up crags and blackened sides that the beautiful winding river and the spring tints helped to beautify and subdue. Presently the massive Brada, up the grand Gorge de Bacheviron, came in sight on our left, and as we passed the insignificant hamlet of Pragneres (43/4 miles), where the torrent of Bugaret dashes down into the Gave, the Brada looked more massive still. Thus it continued all along the route, every bend of the road bringing something new—whether a cascade, a valley, or a lofty peak, always something to claim attention and praise. At such a bend, shortly after quitting Pragneres, the great snow-crowned Pimene (9193 ft.) seemed to bar the way; while at another, the hamlet of Bue and the Col de Bue appeared on the right, and at another, again, Mont Ferrat (10,575 ft.), up the Heas valley on the left. Not very much further, when bending into Gedre, we obtained a splendid glimpse of La Tour and La Casque du Marbore and the Breche de Roland. Gedre (8 miles), like all the rest of the villages or hamlets in the vicinity, is a miserable, poverty-stricken-looking place, but with picturesque surroundings. It is a good centre for numerous excursions—notably that to the Cirque de Troumouse—and possesses an excellent botanist as well as a celebrated grotto.

[Footnote: The grotto's notoriety is gained, perhaps, by its imposture; it is in reality no grotto, but a very pretty bit of scenery nevertheless, on a fine day.]

Stopping at the house by the bridge, we were escorted by the good woman into her garden and down some steps to a platform, whence the so-called grotto was to be surveyed. It is a very picturesque spot. The lofty walls of perpendicular rock, the overhanging bushes and flowers, the trees above, the field beyond, and the blue water of the Gave de Heas foaming beneath, are charming enough, with the aid of rays of sunlight, to make the spot famous, and the good woman chuckle as she pockets the half-franc per head.



Starting again, we commenced the zigzag ascent past the church—the road winding among fields golden with daffodils, mingling here and there with the lovely blue of the gentians and the pink Primula farinosa—towards the base of the Coumelie, the mule-path to the Cirque de Troumouse leading through a field above us, as we reached the zigzag's top. Still gently ascending round the foot of the Coumelie, the pointed summit of the lofty Taillon (10,323 ft.) came into view ahead, with the grandiose Campbieil (10,418 ft.) up the Heas valley; and the Pic de Saugue immediately above on the right, from whose height the splendid Cascade d'Arroudet, dashing past the shepherds' cottages, launches its foaming showers into the river below. A few more graceful curvings of the road and we entered the region so aptly termed "Chaos." Attributed to an earthquake at the end of the fourteenth century, rightly or wrongly, the fact nevertheless remains that one of the huge buttresses of the Coumelie became detached from the main summit, and dashed down in enormous blocks to the valley below. There they lie, the road passing between, in the wildest and most indescribable confusion. Here a heap piled one above another, there a mighty shoulder split in twain by a conical fragment which rests in the breach that it made; some towering above the road, others blocking the river below, a few isolated and many half-buried; but all combining to form as wild and wonderful a chaos as the eye could wish to gaze on, but which the pen must fail to describe. Far away on the shores of China, at the port of Amoy, is another scene which, though it must yield the palm to this, is nevertheless one of a similarly wild nature. The "Valley of the Ten Thousand Rocks," as the spot is called, in the midst of which stands a joss-house (or temple), may be reached in a pleasant walk from the harbour of Amoy, by way of the wonderful Rocking Stone, and along paths lined with aloes and cacti. There the grass grows between the confusion of boulders, and the Chinamen's incense ascends to the blue sky; but these points of difference from the Chaos of Gavarnie, though tending to subdue part of the barren wildness, nevertheless still leave a resemblance between the two scenes that is worthy of record.



Leaving this "boulder" region behind us, we passed through a huge avalanche that stood in frozen filthiness far above the carriage on each side of the road, while immediately over us on the left rose the mountain from which it had come—rightly named the Sugar-loaf—and opposite, on the right, the serrated summit of the Soum de Secugnac (8442 ft.).

At this point one of the many nuisances which ought to be classed under the head of "Travellers' Troubles," commenced. In the distance, but coming swiftly towards us, or rather as swiftly as a broken-winded, raw-boned, jolting apology-for-a-horse would allow, was a woman, and alas! in her train were several others; a few on or with donkeys, but more on foot. In vain we told them that we would engage no donkeys at all, and no horses till we reached our destination; in vain we bade them allow us to "pursue the even tenor of our way" in peace, and hush their high soprano tones. It was one perpetual babble in praise of their horses, their donkeys, and their capabilities as guides, with the constant repetition of the names of the surrounding peaks, which we already knew perfectly well. When we reached the gorge which opens up on the right, as though the earth had been split by some mighty shock, and through which the majestic Vignemale (10,821 ft.) was perfectly visible, the storm of voices directing our attention to the sight was as loud as it was unsolicited. But happily we were then close to Gavarnie, and crossing the bridge with a momentary glimpse at the Cirque, we drew up at the door of the Hotel des Voyageurs.

After lunching and engaging our steeds, with an intelligent guide, who answered to the euphonious name of "Poc," we left the greatly disappointed donkey women still making a terrible clamour, and started for the Cirque.

As far as finding out the proper route goes, and that is a long way, no guide whatever is required, but in order to learn the names of the various peaks and other interesting facts, it is distinctly necessary to have one, unless the traveller possesses a very elaborate plan of the vicinity.

Leaving the new bridge to the left, as well as a very ancient one, and the plashing fall known as the "Chute de Lapaca," we turned round in the opposite direction, and passing the "Hotel de la Cascade" and a wooden hut, again turned to the left, down what, though an execrable road, led, nevertheless, to the object of our desires. At this turn the Pic d'Aspe reared above us on the right, succeeded by barren hills covered with loose stones, but as we proceeded, the famous central excursion—the Pimene (9193 ft.)—came in sight on the opposite side, followed by the Breche d'Allanz, the Pic Rouge de Pailla (9107 ft.), Pic d'Astazou (10,106 ft.), the Cylindre (10,916 ft), and even the Marbore (9964 ft.) itself.

Between the Marbore and the Epaule de Marbore (10673 ft.), nearer the centre of the Cirque, the celebrated Cascade du Marbore, (1380 ft. in height) dashes during the warmer months. The curious summits known as La Tour (9902 ft.) and La Casque (9862 ft.), almost equidistant from the centre of the Cirque, on opposite sides, stood clearly before us, with the snow lying below each in the serrated shapes which give rise to the term "Chandelles du Marbore." The Breche de Roland was—as it always is from this view—invisible, hidden behind the Pic de Sarradets (8993 ft.); but the Fausse Breche beyond, and more to the right the magnificent Taillon (10,323 ft.), and the Pic de Gabietou, with the Port de Gavarnie—a peculiar shoulder-like rock, below them both—filled up the semicircle in all its wonderful entirety. When at last we reached the point whence the whole can be viewed to most advantage, we did not require the assertion of the guide that we were in enjoyment of one of the best days of the year, to increase our admiration and delight.

The amphitheatre, standing before us like the ruins of some mighty arena, in which the throngs of eager men and women and the blood of the dying gladiator had long given place to the purifying snow; the summits around uplifted towards the blue sky; the cascade, no longer dashing as full of life and hope, but frozen in its course and hanging in icicles between the rocks; the few uncovered crags scattered here and there, relieving the dazzling whiteness of the "glace eternelle"; the sparse trees down the outer slopes struggling to free themselves from their winter cloak; the cloud of frost scintillating in the sunlight as a mass of loosened snow rushed into the depths below;—was not such a scene as this, presented to our gaze in unveiled splendour, more than sufficient to bewilder in the intensity of its majesty and loveliness?

Yet even this was not all. The silence, the solemn and perfect silence, that reigned over the whole, only broken by the dull sound of the falling avalanche or the shrill voice of the restless crow, was so evident and so powerful, and combined so impressively with the marvellous beauty of the surroundings, that the heart could not fail to recognise the sublimity of Nature and the omnipotence of Nature's God!

We stayed there for a long time, and with great reluctance turned our horses' heads from the scene; while even when we had done so, we stopped at nearly every bend of the road for another look.



The exact distance from the hotel to the extreme end of the Cirque is calculated at 33/4 miles, but we traversed little more than two-thirds of that distance, on account of the depth of the avalanches, which were then melting far too quickly to allow of dry walking any further.

Arriving again at the hotel, the chatter of the women over some new arrivals was as deafening as ever. Our good guide Poc considered it was not to be borne any longer, so having counted the women and their asses, he cleared a space in preparation for a mock sale at which they were all to be put up, and having got us in front as make-believe purchasers, proceeded with the business, which we called

"THE GUIDE'S AUCTION."

This way, sirs, this way! Will you please to walk up? The auction I'm ready to start: I'm instructed to sell all these valuable lots, And the bidding I hope will be smart.

You see by the catalogue, forty clear lots— Thirty women; ten asses; some small. To proceed then, we'll take them, sirs, just as they are, Say forty fine donkeys in all.

They've plenty of sinew, and as to their voice, I think about that you well know. The first lot then, gents; shall we say fifteen francs? Well then, ten; but that's rather too low.

In our country for ladies we've heaps of respect, But we've fully enough and to spare; And we know that "two women a market will make, And that three are enough for a fair."[1]

* * * * *

Now then, gents, please be sharp! No advance? No advance? The candle[2] burns fast to the end. Ten francs for this wonderful native—ten francs! Why, surely, that's nothing to spend!

No bidding? Good gracious! Why what shall I do To oblige you? I'll class them as one: Now what do you say for the whole forty lots? Make a bid, sirs, I want to have done.

Fifty francs for the lot; see the candle's nigh out: Fifty francs, take them all as they rise. What! No one will buy them? Alas! I must say You're all most uncommonly wise.

They clamour and chatter the whole of the day, I believe they snore loudly at night; Oh, if only a Barnum would take them away, You don't know how I'd dance with delight!

[Footnote 1: His exact words were, "Dans mon pays, monsieur, nous disons qu'il faut trois femmes pour faire une foire, et deux pour un marche."]

[Footnote 2: Alluding to the custom in France of burning bits of candle to denote the time in which the bidding may proceed; usually when the third piece goes out the bidding for the special lot is finished, and the next is proceeded with.]

This last verse was very easy to understand, as the women are always anxious to obtain occupation for a lesser remuneration[1] than the qualified guides, who naturally dislike this interference between them and their earnings, although no bad feeling really exists on the matter.

[Footnote 1: There is a good tale told, a propos of this, of a gentleman in San Francisco who wanted some wood chopped. An American offered to do it for a dollar, but a Chinaman asked only half. The gentleman, thinking it best to help his own countryman, gave the Yankee the job; but happening to pass the yard during the day, he found the Chinaman busily at work. "Hullo!" cried he, "I didn't give the job to you. Who told you to cut this wood?" "Melican man" (American man), responded the pigtailer. "And how much is he paying you?" "Hap dollar," replied the Celestial. And the swell went away resolved never to help his countryman again.]

After an enjoyable kettledrum, the tea being our own and made under personal supervision, Miss Blunt perched herself on a hillock to sketch, and Mr. Sydney explored the neighbourhood for flowers, of which gentians were the principal object of his search. Both having in a certain degree attained their ends, we started again at half-past four, and after a pleasant drive, which lasted two hours instead of three—the time occupied in coming—we reached our quarters in the best of tempers and not with the worst of appetites.



CHAPTER IX.

FROM LUZ AND ST. SAUVEUR TO BAGNERES DE LUCHON.

A smiling valley—Lourdes again—The chapel in the crypt—St. Peter's statue—Burnished toes—Solemn quietude—Preparing for the great pilgrimage—"Ornamented" crosses—Mr. Sydney's new vocation, "guide, philosopher, and friend"—Bigorre again—An open-air concert —Harmonious echoes—Paying through the nose—The fete at Payole—Sport a la francaise—Costumes—The view from the Col d'Aspin— Arreau—Quaint houses—La Chapelle de St. Exupere—A whining "gardien"—Eglise de Notre Dame—The River Neste—Hotel de France—Borderes—Avajan—Louderville—Oxslips and cowslips—Wild narcissus—Col de Peyresourde—The view—Garin—Cazaux—St. Aventin—Lovely avenues—Our destination.

With a morning as lovely as the day of our arrival had been dreary, we left at 9.15 for Bagneres de Bigorre, the first part of our long drive. The valley, more fully clothed than it was a week ago, looked so fresh in the warm sunlight, with the river winding along, that we felt very loath to leave. The gorge below, all the way to Pierrefitte, added its share of beauty, and the graceful white heath growing up its sides loaded the air with a sweet scent. The wide expanse of the Argeles valley, with the busy farmers ploughing, sowing, or cutting the heavy clover crop; the lazy oxen ever patiently plodding beneath their heavy burdens; the Chateau de Beaucens—where the orchids grow—perched up on the hillside; the surrounding peaks throwing off their snowy garb; and the beautiful young leaves and tints, everywhere mingling with the brightness of the flowers blooming on the slopes or amid the waving grasses, made a scene as picturesque as it was charming.

Compared with the scenery so far, the remainder of the drive to Lourdes, which we reached in three hours from the time of starting, though full of many pleasant corners in which the river heightened the effect, was nevertheless not so fine; but Lourdes itself looked more attractive than on our former visit. After lunch, while the horses were resting, we drove in a local milord [Footnote: A kind of victoria.] to the church, as we had omitted before to visit the chapel built in the crypt underneath. In the entrance is the fine bronze statue of St Peter clasping the key, similar to the one in Rome both in size and in the highly-burnished appearance of the toes of the right foot, for which latter the affectionate pilgrims are answerable. On either side of the statue a corridor lined with marble tablets—presented by "grateful" individuals in acknowledgment of cures and cleansings—and dotted with confessional boxes, leads down to the chapel. The repulsive gaudiness of the tinsel display in the church above it is almost absent here, and though the same exaltation of the Virgin over our Saviour is manifest, yet otherwise this chapel, with its vaulted roof and its quietude, seems far more fitted for meditation and prayer.

Taking the easy gradient at the west end of the church, between the grassy slopes planted with lilacs and other shrubs and trees, we arrived at the grotto. A huge platform was in course of erection, for the great pilgrimage expected from England in about a week, and the noise of the workmen combined with the sparse gathering of "worshippers" detracted greatly from the former pitiable solemnity of the scene, though the stand of candles was flaring with light, and the crutches, in their horrid rows, were still there.

We left Lourdes again at three o'clock, the sun still very warm, as the lazy attitudes of the peasants working in the fields attested; and, passing several crosses at the roadside—"ornamented" with pincers, hammer, nails, and sword, with a bantam cock on the top—reached the base of the col (600 feet high) which separates the respective basins of the Adour and the Echez. Half-way up the hill we discovered Mr. Sydney, who had walked on ahead, very busy with a team of oxen, towards which, having encountered them without a driver, he had taken upon himself to act as "guide, philosopher, and friend"; and by dint of great application of his umbrella, open and shut, in the last-mentioned capacity, he brought them to, and kept them at, a standstill by the side of the road till the carriage passed.

From the top of the hill we enjoyed an extensive view, the Pic du Midi de Bigorre standing out wonderfully clear. Descending again, we joined the Tarbes road crowded with market carts, and leaving the village of Montgaillard on the left, duly arrived at Bagneres de Bigorre, where we were received with open arms by Monsieur and Madame Bourdette.

The morrow being Sunday, was spent in resting, the magnificent weather still continuing. The trees on the Coustous and the different hills around were at length well covered with foliage, and gave a prettier appearance to the town, which the ever-flowing streams by the roadsides greatly added to. In the evening the Orpheon (or local Choral Society) gave an open-air concert from the roof of one of the Coustous cafes. A tremendous crowd of some 2000 persons had gathered under the trees to listen, and kept perfectly still while the songs proceeded. The solos were not particularly wonderful, but the beautiful blending of the voices in the Pyrenean part-songs was a very great treat, and the sounds, floating deliciously away on the soft evening air, could be heard like some whispering echo for a long distance.



We had some difficulty in arranging for a carriage, on the following day, for Luchon, as a great number had been engaged for the fete at Payole, and for those not yet taken high prices—considering the time of year—were asked. Not wishing, however, to lose a day, we settled for a landau and three horses to do the journey in two days—for 110 francs, including pourboire—stopping the night at Arreau. The day broke, like its predecessors, perfectly fine, and at 10.30 we made our adieus to Bigorre, and were on our way.

The scenery all the way to Payole was more charming than when we drove there [Footnote: See pages 40-44.] previously, and on our arrival at the Hotel de la Poste there was a considerable difference visible there. The courtyard was filled with carriages, and a busy throng buzzed about the doors, while the windows were occupied by a variety of forms. Having with great difficulty secured utensils, we unearthed the lunch, and proceeded with our meal at a side-table. The participators in the fete, who were all men, occupied the centre table, and others were at the side. The noise they made was not appetising, and though they mixed wines considerably, their jokes did not improve; yet the scene was a very typical one of "Frenchmen out for a holiday." After our repast, we adjourned to see the fete, and a wonderful treat it was! Tame rabbits and fowls, fastened to a stake driven into the hillside, some 90 to 100 yards from the road, were the targets, at which a perpetual round of shots soon commenced. Double-barrelled guns loaded with ball were the usual weapons; one or two single-barrelled pieces and a rifle or two being occasionally seen.

The marksmen seemed peculiarly poor ones, from the country lad, or the genuine 'Arry, with huge check clothes, to the moustached "masher," with tight trousers and rounded jacket. About one "poulet" in fifty shots succumbed, and a white rabbit's dismissal was received with loud acclamations.

At 2.30, exactly two hours after our arrival, we were off again, and soon entered the pine forest. It looked very bonny in the bright sunlight, while the view from the Col d'Aspin was singularly felicitous. Not a cloud anywhere. The mighty Posets, the Pic d'Arbizon, and the other snow-crowned heights, softened by distance and beautified by the tints in the foreground, stood out against the azure sky in all their splendour.

The Aure valley, as we descended, and the tiny hamlet of Aspin, looked very peaceful and lovely; in fact, the whole of the extensive scene—considered one of the finest to be enjoyed by driving in the Pyrenees—seemed to spread out its charms before us.

Winding down the splendid road, Arreau was soon in view, and at 4.30 we drove under the portico of the Hotel de France, somewhat dusty, but wholly pleased. With some time to spare before dinner, we set out to explore this wonderfully quaint, and—though dirty—strikingly picturesque old town. A road leads from the courtyard of the hotel straight to the very ancient-looking market-place and the river, at which point the latter is crossed by a very old wooden bridge. Traversing this, and passing several curious houses with verandahs reaching over the street, we found ourselves at the ancient Chapelle de St. Exupere, built during the 9th and 10th centuries, but now restored. The windows are of fine stained glass, and the view from the belfry tower, over the peculiar old town—with its curious turrets and roofs, whose best days have long passed—is worth the somewhat arduous mount to get to it. The peasant girl who stands inside the door, and in a sing-song voice that never varies mixes up saints, fathers, towns, corn, potatoes, bells, and "quelque chose pour le gardien," in her rigmarole, was the least attractive adjunct of the venerable pile!

Down a little alley, across the river, directly opposite the church, Miss Blunt discovered a suitable spot for a sketch, [Footnote: Unhappily this sketch was afterwards lost, so cannot be reproduced] and on the production of materials and a chair from a neighbouring grocer's she set to work, and in spite of the nearness—we might say the "too odoriferous nearness "—of a dust-heap, a drain, and a swarm of midges, she gallantly pursued her task till it reached a highly satisfactory termination.

Leaving the "ambrosial spot" (Jupiter save us!) we followed the road leading past the old market-place at right angles to the wooden bridge, and reached the church of Notre Dame. Though more modern than the "Chapelle," it is at least three centuries old, having been built on the ruins of the one originally erected in the 12th century. The wooden reredos behind the altar, and other wooden carvings, seemed especially good, but the cure, jingling a bunch of keys, preceded by an abbe, seemed anxious to see us depart; so we prematurely left. Strolling back through the town, and over the stone bridge that spans the Neste, we walked for a short distance on the other side, and then past the post-office and the Hotel du Midi, to our own quarters for dinner. The Hotel de France, as it is called, is the best in Arreau, but is nevertheless not much more than a fairly large country inn. The rooms are very clean, and the food good, but the arrangements are somewhat primitive; yet for all this we were very well satisfied on the whole, though the necessity of starting at nine o'clock next morning prevented us indulging in rhapsodies.

When we left the courtyard and passed through the back part of the town by the old church, the sky was still of the same lovely hue, though unhappily there was hardly a breath of wind. Notwithstanding that Arreau is charmingly placed, and that the trees were fairly forward there, we soon found at a very slight increase of altitude that this was not to last; in fact, almost at once after passing Borderes (2-1/4 miles)—an old village with a castle of Jean V., a change was apparent. Two miles further brought us to the insignificant hamlet of Avajan, and another three of continual ascent to the outskirts of Louderville (3280 ft.), with its old watch-tower (14th cent.) and cool cascade. Here we had a fine view of the valley below, and passed fields covered with oxslips, cowslips, and other flowers; while lower down, meadow after meadow was whitened by the lovely wild narcissus. Following at a very easy pace the long zigzags (two hours and a half from Arreau), we reached the highest point of the road at the Port or Col de Peyresourde [Footnote: 35 miles from Bigorre, n. from Arreau.] (5070 ft), whence the view, though much more limited than that from the Col d'Aspin, extends over the valleys of Louron and Arboust, and many snow-peaks as well.

As we descended the splendid winding road at a rattling pace, with the slipper on the wheel, we quickly left barren trees and slopes behind, and even at Garin, that curious village built among the rocks, the silver birches were opening their leaves. Passing in turn the villages of Cazaux, with its 12th century church, and St. Aventin, with its double-towered church of a similar date, also, we sped under most splendid avenues of sycamore, elm, lime, and ash, past dashing streams and bright flower-clothed slopes—always descending—till we entered Luchon: Luchon surrounded by magnificent hills, Luchon guarded by the distant but ever-majestic snow summits, Luchon bathed in the scent of lilac and other sweets, Luchon cooled and beautified by avenues and squares of bright trees, and by gardens filled with the loveliest of shrubs and flowers. Such was the Luchon presented to us as we drove through the splendid streets and reached our hotel.



CHAPTER X.

BAGNERES DE LUCHON.

The bathing establishment and its surroundings—The lovely Allees—Montauban church and cascade—The Villa Russe and its genial host—Various excursions—Orphanage of Notre Dame de Rocher—The Vallee du Lys—The Rue d'Enfer and cascades—A lively scene—The view from Superbagneres—Loading wood—"The Oxen's Appeal"—Visit to the Orphanage—A "holy" relic—To Bosost—St. Mamet—"A Stumbling-block" —Cascade of Sidonie—Horse tricks and jockey dodges—Lizards in flight—Fashion on a donkey—On the Portillon 'twixt France and Spain—The Valley of Aran—Snug Bosost—A curious inn—Children with artistic bent—A bright pathway—Missing much, but thankful still.

The most delightful of weather throughout our stay doubtless added greatly to our enjoyment of Luchon, and our willingness to agree with its title as "The Pearl of the Pyrenees "; and, in fact, to all people but those who love dust, noise, and fashion, this month of May is the pleasantest time of the year to go, see, and be happy.

The great bathing establishment, situated as it is in a lovely garden (Quinconces) with a charming lake overhung with the graceful weeping willows, and under the wooded sides of Superbagneres, seems to invite one to enter and bathe. When we looked in, very little business was going on, and one of the attendants, in the hope of receiving a small coin, was nothing loath to show us round.

It is the largest and most efficiently arranged of all the Pyrenean establishments, and can accommodate over 200 people at the same time; "douche" baths, swimming baths, ordinary baths, rooms for inhaling, rooms for "pulverisation," seemed to succeed one another with unending rapidity, as we followed our guide down long corridors or up flights of stairs; and when at last it was all over, and he had quietly and contentedly pocketed his coin, we felt as though we had been taking quite a long walk.



The Allee d'Etigny—the principal street—and all the other allees, notably the Allee des Bains, make most delightful promenades, even in the heat of the day, so delightful is the shade afforded by the trees that line the way on either side. To walk from the "Thermes" along the Allee des Bains, turning into the Casino gardens, or continuing further—leaving the "Chute de la Pique" on the right—along the riverside till the road to Montauban cuts it at right angles, is a most delicious evening stroll. We prolonged this, by taking the road in question between the poplars up to the village of Montauban itself; but found more interest in the beautiful new church than in the waterfall at the back of the village, which is gained by passing through the good cure's garden, and for which privilege half a franc is charged. The church, of white stone, very symmetrically built and of quite a different architecture from the usual French types, stands out imposingly at the entrance to the village, backed up by the tree-clad hills and the cottages beyond. The interior is most chaste and tasteful, as different from the usual Roman Catholic interior as is the outside from the general exterior, the texts on the pillars near the entrance being quite an unusual feature. Whether the decoration was not yet finished, and the tinsel therefore not yet arrived, we could not learn; but are afraid it is only too probable, as the church, as it stood, might have been one of our own; for even the gilt pulpit harmonised so well with the rest, that it did not detract from the religious and solemn effect, while the light through the finely-coloured windows threw a softening glimmer over all.



We returned by a short cut through the fields on the left and the garden of the Villa Russe, whose owner, "charmant et gentil," not only showed us all over, but very kindly invited us to a strawberry feast a month hence—which sorrowfully we had to decline—as well as making us free of his garden and fields, the latter being filled with the sweet-scented narcissus.

The Hotel Canton, in which we were staying, was very conveniently situated and comfortable. While standing in a quiet part of the Rue d'Espagne it was close to the post-office and casino on the one hand, and the bathing establishment and the Jardin des Quinconces on the other. Moreover, the stables of Jean Sanson—a most excellent guide for all excursions—were close at hand, and his horses would be difficult to beat; while his son Luis is experienced in all trips and ascents, not only in the vicinity, but over a large part of the Pyrenees.

The new casino, barely three years old, is situated in as charming a quarter as could well be imagined, for besides possessing a finely laid-out garden with many fine shrubs and trees, it is bounded by three beautiful allees as well. As previously mentioned, it can be gained by the Allee des Bains, but the most direct way to the building itself, from our hotel, was by keeping to the right along the Rue d'Espagne and the narrow street beyond (the post-office being to the left), opposite which a side entrance leads to the imposing edifice.

The three most popular excursions from Luchon are those to the Port de Venasque, the mountain pass at the head of the Pique Valley; the Vallee du Lys and the Cascades; and thirdly, the ascent of Superbagneres.

The greatest of all, and in truth the greatest in the Pyrenees, is the ascension of the Pic de Nethou (11,170 ft.), the highest of the range, and its two great buttresses, the Pics Maladetta (10,867 ft.) and Milieu (11,044 ft). None but experienced mountaineers, with the most experienced guides, attempt this ascent, which is attended with much danger; but there are many other delightful trips in the vicinity, including a visit to the Spanish village of Bosost; up the Aran valley to Viella; a drive to the picturesquely-placed St. Beat, or to the old Roman town of St. Bertrand de Comminges.

Pleasant walks and drives are probably more numerous from Luchon than from any other Pyrenean resort, and though we were rather too early in the year for mountain climbing, the fine weather enabled us to enjoy several other outings, which we will describe in turn.

The Vallee du Lys and the Rue d'Enfer make an agreeable picnic, either in a carriage as far as the "Cabanes du Lys" (6-1/4 miles), and then horses for the other 3-3/4 miles up to the abyss, the cascades, and the Rue d'Enfer, or on horseback all the way. We preferred the latter, and taking a good lunch in the saddle-bags, made a start at the favoured hour of ten. Under the lee of the Quinconces, past the Hotel Richelieu, Villa Richelieu, and the elevated Villa Marguerite, and we were fairly on our way, the air sweetly laden with the scent from the flower-decked fields and the lilac-trees in the gardens.

When we passed the little road on the left leading to the Orphanage of Notre Dame du Rocher, the lilac-scent was very strong; and the position of the various buildings in connection with the institution seemed so attractive that we determined to take a stroll there later on. Pursuing our way, with the restored ruin of the Castelvieil above us on its "monticule" overlooking the Orphanage, we were soon in a narrower part of the valley, with the wooded slopes on either side. Then we crossed the river to the left bank, which we followed until reaching the point where the road to the Hospice and the Port de Venasque led to the left, and ours crossed the river by a neat bridge (the Pont de Ravi) to the right bank again. A little beyond this, the route for Superbagneres —which we hoped to take another day—struck off among the trees on the right of the road, which in turn gradually bent in the same direction all up the beautiful Lys valley, till it again curved in the opposite direction and arrived at the base of the Cascades, where there is a fair inn (Auberge du Lys).[Footnote: Only in summer.] From thence the road forks, but the track to the left is the better of the two, at any rate if on foot, and by it—after fifteen minutes' labour—the foot of the Cascade d'Enfer is reached; and the Pont d'Arrouge in another quarter of an hour. A similar length of time is still necessary to reach a small tower whence a good view of the Gouffre d'Enfer and the Pont de Nadie, above it, can be enjoyed. This tower is about a mile distant from the foot of the lowest fall. The other cascade (the Cascade du Coeur) is not a very difficult twenty minutes' walk by a path that leads through the trees to Lac Vert, and as there is a capital inn there (later in the season), we think that this would be a good spot for lunch. Even as it was, we managed to enjoy ours pretty well, for fresh air and sunshine are good appetisers, and the ride had added its effect besides. The return ride in the afternoon, when the sun was commencing to decline a little, was very pleasant, and the snow-covered Port de Venasque, so beautiful in its whiteness, and yet for the same reason quite inaccessible, looked very lovely when tinged with the crimson hue that the setting sun shot o'er it, as we arrived in Luchon again.



The following morning broke beautifully fine, and Luis Sanson was at the door punctually at seven, with the horses for our trip up to Superbagneres.

The saddle-bags were again filled, and away we went, the horses—still so fresh—being eager for a canter in the fresh morning air. In summer the ascent is usually made by St. Aventin and the Granges de Gouron, in which case the road towards the Col de Peyresourde is followed as far as St. Aventin, and thence a way leading to the left; but we were too early for that route, as an avalanche had only lately fallen, so were obliged to go and return by the route used in the season for the return only, viz., by the "Pont de Ravi" up the Vallee de la Pique. Having reached the bridge and taken the path indicated by the sign-board on the right, we were soon among the trees, which lent a very welcome shade from the increasing heat, which even at this early hour (7.40 A.M.) the glorious Sol was not ashamed to diffuse.

At every fresh turn the strokes of the axe rang through the wood, mingled with the sound of voices, and after making considerable progress—during which our guide narrated incidents in his career as hunter, guide, and jockey—we arrived in view of a very lively scene. Workmen busy with the hatchet, the saw, and the plane, in the foreground; others in the rear occupied with mortar and stones, building a small but substantial house; a cart with oxen lazily waiting, like Mr. Micawber, for "something to turn up"; a few superior individuals in deep consultation, and the irrepressible sun struggling through the beeches and pines to have "his finger in the pie"—such was the scene we saw, but soon left behind. After this the good broad carriage-road soon came to an end, and the easy gradient changed to a steep path among a grove of nothing but beeches, which emerged later on the slope of a somewhat bare and stony hill dotted with a few gentians. The view improved with nearly every step, growing magnificently vast; and when at length we reached the summit, or rather a mound a few feet lower, but equally good as a point of sight (for the summit was covered with snow), we gazed on as grand an expanse of mountains and tree-clothed valleys as imagination could picture in the most lofty of its lofty flights.



Probably but few people will be disposed to deny that, considering the comparatively small amount of labour necessary to attain the summit, it is more than amply compensated for; and, when the height of Superbagneres—which is only 5,900 ft.—is taken into account, such a grand sight is almost unique. For over two-thirds of a circle the chain of peaks continues, extending from the Cecire of Superbagneres to the Cecire [Footnote 1: We have only the guide's authority for this name here.] above Bosost, and even beyond. Beginning with the nearest, the Cecire (8,025 ft.) of Superbagneres, then come the Pene de Montarque (9685 ft.), and the cone-shaped Quairat (10,037 ft.), followed by the huge glacier of Crabioules, which, in spite of its eternal snow, supplies the various cascades in the Rue d'Enfer that flow into the Lys valley. Above rise up the Pic de Crabioules (10,233 ft), the Pic de Bourn (9,875 ft), and the peculiar Tuc de Maupas (10,204 ft.); after which the Trous d'Enfer and the Pic de Sacroux (8,786 ft) appear. The next of the near peaks is the Pic de Sauvegarde (9,145 ft), but between the Sacroux and this, calm and clear, the highest peaks of the range, the Milieu, the Maladetta, and the Nethou, with the dead white glacier below them, rise in view. After the Sauvegarde, the Pic de la Mine (9,048 ft.), the Port de Venasque (7,930 ft.), and the very pointed Pic de la Pique (7,854 ft.) appear, followed by the Pas de l'Escalette (7,877 ft.) and the Port de la Picade (8,219 ft.), towards which group the Vallee de l'Hospice leads.

To the left of the Picade, the cone of the lofty "Posets" may be seen in the distance, while more to the left, and more distant too, the Pena Blanca (9222 ft.) is also visible. Further round, over the wooded "cols" that guard the "Pique" valley, the Mont Segu [Footnote: We have only the guide's authority for the name.] and Cecire near Bosost, and the Pyrenees Orientales beyond, finished the magnificent chain. From another situation we could look down on Luchon and from this point were endeavouring to reach the little hut, where fodder and a few provisions can be found in the season, when an ancient shepherd bawled out in patois that the place was as yet tenantless, for which we felt thankful to that peasant, as it saved us a long tramp through rather deep snow, though for that same reason we were unable to reward his forethought as it deserved. Leaving him to pursue his guileless way, we descended into the beech grove for our lunch, and finding grateful shade at the foot of a fine fir, we opened the saddle-bags and proceeded to regale ourselves, finding some snow that we brought from the top very useful to cool the rather heated claret. After nature was satisfied we quickly descended past the previously busy scene, and when near the high road again came in view of some woodmen loading a cart with logs. To do this the logs had to be brought to an eminence above the cart, and bullocks were employed to drag up the wood. The men were treating them most cruelly, and once or twice they lowed so piteously, that we have translated it into

"THE OXEN'S APPEAL."

Working and toiling the whole of the day, Working and toiling without any pay, Only perchance a few mouthfuls of hay, From earliest dawn till late. Held by the horns 'neath this cumbersome yoke, Firmer fixed thus than a "pig in a poke," Feeling the "prong" and the lengthy stick's stroke, Ours, alas, is a terrible fate.

When straining our utmost, you bring the stick down On our miserable backs; and you swear, and you frown, Never thinking the sun is just "doing us brown," As the furnace will do when we're slain. We cannot pull more than we can, you must know, And we cannot pull fast if we can but pull slow, So why should you spike us, and ill-use us so, And make our hides tingle with pain?

We serve you well always, draw heaviest loads, And never complain of the worst of bad roads; While you in return use those blood-drawing goads At ev'ry conceivable time. Be sure that no quicker or wiser are we, But we do sometimes think if we got our horns free, The position in which you would probably be, And you would not pronounce it sublime.

So listen, we pray, to our modest appeal: With kindness more proud of our work we should feel; And if those fierce blows you still ruthlessly deal, You'll make our flesh horrible stuff; For though steaks are good beaten, that's done when they're cold, And we're certainly not, nor as yet very old; But as some day we'll have to be butchered and sold, We had better be tender than tough. If you'll try our plan—that is enough!

At twenty minutes past one we had repassed the graceful Jardin des Quinconces, with the weeping willows overhanging the lakelet, and were within the cool precincts of the hotel.

Having a couple of hours to spare another morning, we wended our way towards the Orphanage, "deep in the lilac grove." Turning off from the road, we followed the narrow track over the rustic bridge, and were received anything but hospitably by a huge white dog. We calmed him in time, however, and proceeded to inspect the buildings, but found nearly everyone shut up, though the little church—elevated above the rest—was, unlike them, thrown open. Its very rusticity and simplicity gave it a religious air which to us so few Roman Catholic edifices seem to possess. The badly-spelt and feebly-worded address to the Pope, to which he has affixed his signature, that hangs in a frame near the door, we did not consider much of an attraction, though to the members of the little congregation it would doubtless be a very holy relic. Forsaking this peaceful retreat, we climbed up the ascent behind, within view of the statue of the Virgin, but soon descended again, as the sun was at that time particularly "baking," and we were not doughty enough to pretend to resist it. After a cool spell near the chapel-door, watching the "painted ladies" [Footnote: Butterflies, of course!] playing with the lilac blossoms, we trudged slowly back again.

One of the pleasantest as well as most interesting of our trips in the Pyrenees was from Luchon to the little Spanish village of Bosost, and as it is one of the principal pillars that uphold the chief title of this volume, it deserves a detailed mention.

This time the favourite hour of ten was not early enough for starting, so we were on horseback by 9.15, going very leisurely, being quite undesirous to force the pace, as the day was warm even at that hour.

Up the Rue d'Espagne for a short distance beyond the Hotel Richelieu (which hotel, from all we have heard, though large, is not too moderate nor owned by too polite a proprietor), and then we took the turning to the left, which (as the signboard tells) leads to St. Mamet. Without waiting to enter the old church to see its frescoes, we pursued the road branching off to the right, which presently left the Orphanage behind in the same direction. A few minutes later we had passed the frontier (French) custom station, and leaving the isolated Castelvieil (2514 ft.) for a short time on our right, and later in our rear, we bore up the Vallee de Burbe. We had only progressed a short distance when a huge rock was visible in the centre of the road, evidently a very recent gift from the adjacent height. Our horses having been so little used, were very fresh and rather fond of shying, and our guide's, which was an Arab, not only shied at the impediment, but wheeled round with the intention of going homewards. As we managed to make our own, however, pass quietly, the obstreperous one, after a brief struggle, was induced to follow their example. A little further on, we met a fine team of Spanish mules in their full picturesque trappings and bells. The two men in charge of them were dressed a little untidily, but their attire was equally picturesque, the coloured waistband, turban, and knee-breeches producing a very bright effect.

The bright yellow-green of the beeches, mingling with the dark and gloomy olive shade of the firs; here and there fields laden with the blue columbine and the "overrated" asphodel; the boulder-strewn slopes on our left, and the snow-ridges on the right; and the strong, fresh, and foaming cascade of Sidonie tumbling down beside us, made a very delicious contemplation as we went on our way.

Our guide in a most "gallant" manner got off his steed to gather Miss Blunt a few flowers, but when he endeavoured to assume his former elevated position, the "Arab" didn't see it. In fact he would not be mounted, and the unevenness of the track added not a little to the success of his manoeuvrings. "Luis" had not been six months a "jockey" for nothing, however; so he lulled his steed into a sense of security by walking beside it for some time in circus fashion, with his right hand grasping the off side of the saddle, until a large stone showed its head at the side of the road. As they passed, he ran up the stone and was in the saddle before the animal realised that he was beaten, and when he did, it seemed to humble him to that degree that he never attempted even a curvet.

The number of lizards we disturbed was something wonderful. None of them were very large or very striking in colour, but they made up for this in animation; and their fearful trepidity and hurry to get anywhere out of sight was wonderful.

Just before entering the sunlit beech glades we overtook a noble cavalcade, consisting of three ladies on three donkeys, with a fat old woman leading the way on foot. They had their lunch with them, and apparently intended—judging by a certain hungry look they had—to make their repast at the earliest opportunity. The young and beautiful lady bringing up the rear was probably ignorant of the ludicrous figure she made with her "ultra" fashionable arrangement of steels, that gave her the appearance of having a large clothes-bag under her dress, or we don't think she would have started on the excursion in such a garment. If a member of the "Rational Dress Society" had seen her, there would probably have been an "exhibition" on the spot, and a general one—with all the latest "improvements" (?)—at Luchon a few weeks later.

After traversing a number of beautiful glades we entered the Firs—the Black Forest as it is called,—where bears are hunted in the winter, and through which the road ascends by a series of zigzags to the summit of the Col de Portillon (4275 ft.), and then descends for a short distance to the frontier, marked by a huge boulder, with the French flag on one side and the Spanish on the other. As we reined in the horses opposite to it for a moment, no one could dispute that we were indeed "'twixt France and Spain." But we did not stay to enjoy this enviable position long; and passing on, endeavoured to realise that we were no longer in France by fixing our eyes on the Pyrenees Orientales; we could also see the Poujastou (6332 ft.) on our left, the Couradilles (6513 ft.), the Mont Segu, the Cecire, [Footnote: We had only our guide's authority for these names] and further forward the Entecade on our right. A short distance down the road there lay the Casino du Portillon, not yet opened for the summer gambling, and not very much further (viz., about a mile from the frontier), the Spanish custom-house, and the Casino de Roulette. Here the road divides, the branch to the Vallee d'Aran and Bosost bearing to the left, and the other, to Viella and the Artiques-Tellin, in the opposite direction.

Passing some ruined houses and fertile slopes in our descent, we soon obtained a fine view up both ends of the Aran valley, with the diminutive Garonne winding through, and Bosost snugly situated on the slopes of a hill round a bend in the road. The sun was pouring down in all his midday strength as we passed the roadside chapel of St. Antoine and entered the antiquated little village of Bosost, stopping at the Fonda de Espana for lunch.

This inn, from the road, was as much unlike an inn as anything we ever saw, and its ways and passages were somewhat unique; but upstairs there was a large room with a wide terrace facing the river, which only wanted an awning over to be rendered delicious. We were unfortunately too early in the season for this luxury, so had to content ourselves with lunching in the room, with wide-opened doors. When the provisions were spread out, in rushed the guide with an official document, and a franc to pay for having invaded Spain. We gave him the money, and asked to taste some honest country wine, which resulted in the domestic bringing us something rather strong, like new port, which did not go badly with water.

After the repast had passed pleasantly, we strolled out into the village, Miss Blunt being equipped with the requisites for a brilliant sketch. Unhappily, the subject was not easy to find, though we marched through most of the streets; but having visited the ancient church—with its chime of bells, like many others in Spain, arranged on a wheel—we found a spot by the side of a huge elm from which there was a good view of the sacred edifice. But it was a case of sketching under difficulties, as the whole or at least the greater part of the village children crowded round us, some carrying smaller children in their arms, some playing with flowers, others cutting bits of wood, and one and all managing to do their utmost to bother poor Miss Blunt. She accordingly finished the sketch as quickly as possible, and we all returned to the hotel to keep out of the oppressive heat.

At three o'clock we started homewards, going rather faster than when we came. Alternate clouds and sunshine overhead, the lights and shadows over the trees, the fields—radiant with gentians, oxslips, columbine, polygaloe, and asphodel—losing none of their charm.

At the Spanish custom-house we delivered up our passport, for which we had paid the franc, and then wound over the Portillon and gently back to our hotel, not arriving too late for the cup that soothes and cheers, but never cheers too loudly.

The morrow was to see us leaving Luchon—the charming, the beautiful—and all of us had a similar feeling, viz., that we might soon come and see the "Pearl of the Pyrenees" again.

It was true that we had missed all the noise and excitement which comes with the summer; that we had missed the troops of Pau-ites wearing out such of their "robes" as the heat would allow, and the throngs of gay Spaniards; that we had missed the crowds of invalids, the bands of music, and the worst specimens of the travelling world, "French tourists." But it was a truth for which we were very grateful, and we would certainly advise future visitors to take Luchon in the spring, and leave it before the heat and bustle of the season mar its peace, and the summer's sun melts the snowy splendour of the surrounding heights.



CHAPTER XI.

ST. BERTRAND DE COMMINGES.

Keeping to old friends—Valley history—Entering the Garonne valley—The picturesque St. Beat—St. Beat to Viella—Memories of the lovely Thames—Baths of Ste. Marie—Loures—The cross-roads—Weak walls—Entering St. Bertrand—An ancient house—The inn—A charming garden—The cathedral—A national disgrace—"The Crocodile of St. Bertrand"—The tomb of Hugues de Chatillon—Travelling desecraters—St. Bertrand's rod—The ruined cloisters—Desolation—Swine feeding—Montrejeau—The buffet—No milk!—French railway officials—Trying experiences.

It was not many years ago that travellers with heavy luggage were forced to travel in the clumsy diligence between Luchon and Montrejeau; and, especially in the summer when the press for places was great, very little comfort could be enjoyed during the journey, except perhaps on a fine day, when for a short space the vehicle stopped at St. Bertrand de Comminges. Now, the railway in an hour performs the whole distance; but we preferred to keep to our old friends, a "landau and four horses," and with the weather still propitious, left the comfortable Hotel Canton at our favourite time, and were soon bowling down the Allee d'Etigny. In a short time the Allee Barcugna and the station were left behind, and we entered the broader part of the valley of Luchon. This valley was originally—on dit—a huge lake, and afterwards —presumably when it had ceased to be such—became peopled by a Gallic race, whose "divinity," Ilixo, [Footnote: Ilixo has now become Luchon.] has given his name to the surroundings. We presume in this derivation "consonants are interchangeable and vowels don't count."

Cier de Luchon (four and a quarter miles), above which to the west stands the Pic d'Antenac (6470 ft), was soon passed through, as we crossed and recrossed the railway line, now following the River Pique, and now, for a short space, keeping along the line. Five miles further, and we left the Pique valley for that of the Garonne, passing through the village of Cierp, which lies to the right of Marignac, the station where passengers alight for St. Beat. This is a very picturesque village, about three miles east, perched above the Garonne in a narrow defile, possessing an ancient church and a good inn. The Pic de Gar (5860 ft.), which rears up to the north of the village, is very rich in flora; and the road passing through it (St Beat) afterwards leads by the villages of Arlos, Fos, and Les to Bosost (twelve miles), whence it continues to Viella.

The valley at this point is particularly fertile and lovely, and as we progressed, frequently following the windings of the Garonne, memories of pleasant hours, both lively and dreamy, spent on some of the quiet reaches on the dear old Thames, seemed naturally to recall themselves; the similarity of the surroundings being in some parts so great.

At Salechan (thirteen miles) the beautiful valleys of Siradan and Barousse branch off, and the scenery in the vicinity is deliciously bright and peaceful-looking. The bathing resort of Ste. Marie lies a mile northwards, and barely a mile to the west of it, on the road to Mauleon, the baths of Siradan are situated. Mauleon (1960 ft.) is three and a quarter miles west from Siradan by the village of Cazaril, standing at the head of the Barousse valley.

Still passing through charming country, we reached Loures (not to be confounded with Lourdes), at which place—being the railway station for St. Bertrand—carriages can be hired for the drive, a distance of six miles there and back. Traversing the village and crossing the bridge, we issued again on a vista of fields bright with trefoil and waving flowers, and backed up by finely-wooded hills. Away to the right, nestling among the trees, stands a pretty little village and castle, and as we passed on, St. Bertrand came in view over the crest of a wooded hill; and, arriving at the junction where the roads from Auch, Toulouse, and Ax join in, we ascended the hill on which this ancient town is situated.

Founded by Pompey the Great, B.C. 69, Lugdunum Convenarum, or Lyon, or—as it is now called—St. Bertrand de Comminges, though standing only 1690 ft. above the sea, seems from its isolated position, to be much higher; as the accompanying sketch by M. Dore testifies, though the latter exaggerates the proportions of the cathedral.

Though in a ruinous state, much of the old ramparts and fortifications remain, while in some parts many of the old stones seemed to us to have been used for ornamental walls, such as no one would consider fit to resist even a very modest cannon-ball.

Bearing to the left, we passed beneath the "Porte Cabirole," opposite to which stands a small kiosque, built, on account of the beauty of the view, at that point The road continues between high walls underneath another archway, past the ruins of a curious house, with a winding staircased tower of the 13th century, which alas! before this appears in print, will probably have disappeared altogether; then bending to the left, and again to the right after a few yards, we drew up at the Cafe (called by courtesy Hotel) de Comminges, with the ancient cathedral in full view. Having sent a telegram early in the morning, we found lunch ready for us, and though we had fared better elsewhere, we did not consider that for a "primitive Roman town" the meal was to be found fault with while as to the garden belonging to the inn, it was indeed a charming little spot. Although in truth but little more than a "spot," the bright and varied hues of its stocks, columbines, pansies, and sweet peas, with here and there a particularly fine iris, contrasting so effectively with the dark green of the ivy leaves and the blackness of the berries clustering over the old wall, gave it a charm which we could not fail to feel; and the view from the creeper-grown arbour over the richly-wooded hills and brilliant fields, with the bright garden as a background, made a scene to remember and enjoy.



Notre Dame, or Sainte Marie, as the cathedral is called, attracted our attention most, and though the front view is perfectly spoilt by the lofty scaffolding erected before it, the inside fully compensates for this defect, although it is impossible to view the ruinous state of some portions without great regret.

The English are supposed to be a very lucky people, and at any rate we have reason to be thankful that we are not a republic, nor as a rule neglectful of old historical buildings; and the sight of this magnificent old place, mouldering away with no apparent aid forthcoming—except such as the liberality of occasional visitors provides, and that, for such a work, is practically nil—did not provoke any wish to change our nationality. It is not as if the French said, "We are becoming a Protestant people, and therefore wish to destroy all signs of our having once followed the faith of Rome;" for in that case censure would be utterly misplaced; but surely if the national religion remains Roman Catholic, an ancient and wonderfully interesting old cathedral like this ought to be suitably preserved.