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 pa.s.sport, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sed through, as we crossed and recrossed the railway line, now following the River Pique, and now, for a short s.p.a.ce, keeping along the line. Five miles further, and we left the Pique valley for that of the Garonne, pa.s.sing through the village of Cierp, which lies to the right of Marignac, the station where pa.s.sengers 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 cl.u.s.tering 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: St. Bertrand De Comminges.]

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.

Having been built at two different periods (viz. the close of the 11th and the middle of the 14th centuries), the architecture presents two distinct styles, which in parts, are particularly incongruous. The organ and pulpit combined, which are on the left of the entrance, const.i.tute a very handsome work of the "Renaissance" period, and are most unique. On the opposite side of the building a crocodile--or the remains of one--hangs from the wall, doubtless brought, as M. Joanne suggests, from some Egyptian crusade; but the "church" puts a very different complexion on the subject, as will be seen from the following, which--with all its faults--will be, we trust, pardoned, since it issues from the mouth of so badly-treated a reptile as

"THE CROCODILE OF ST. BERTRAND."

A crocodile truly, there's no one could doubt, On taking a look at my skin: It's as dry and as tough as a petrified clout,[1]

Though, alas! there is nothing within.

I've been here on this wall for a jolly long time, And the "cronies" a legend will tell Of the wonderful things, void of reason and rhyme, That during my lifetime befell.

They'll tell you I lived in "this" beautiful vale, And found in the river a home; While even the bravest would start and turn pale, If they chanced in my pathway to roam.

They'll tell how I swallow'd the babies and lambs, And hara.s.sed the cows in the mead; And such slander completely my character d.a.m.ns, While I've no one to help _me_ to plead.

And they'll whine how I met the great Bertrand himself, The miracle-worker and saint.

But those women will tell any "walkers" for pelf, And swear I'm all black--when I ain't.

Yes! they actually say that St. Bertrand came by, And lifted his ivory stick, Then dealt me a terrible blow in the eye, Which levell'd me flat as a brick.

But it's false! Just as false as that "here" I was brought

On the back of that wonderful man.

But the crones just repeat what the "priesthood"

have taught,

And it's part of a regular plan.

Why, believe me, they caught me afloat on the Nile

As my dinner I just had begun;

I was chased by a host of the picked "rank and file,"

And to them my destruction seem'd fun.

And when I was dead they anointed my bones,

And placed me up here on the wall;

But that organ at first was so loud in its tones,

Of rest I found nothing at all.

A crocodile truly. You've heard my sad tale,

And I say that such lies are a sin;

While the protests I make, seeming nought to avail,

Are enough to make any one thin!

[Footnote 1: This is a Yorkshire word, meaning "cloth."]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE CROCODILE OF ST. BERTRAND.]

Turning away from this "priestly" monument to St. Bertrand's miraculous powers, we pa.s.sed along the side of the remarkable choir stalls--which take up the greater part of the edifice--and turned inside at an opening, near the high altar. The latter, decorated with the ordinary display of 19th century tinsel, does not call for much comment, but in a pa.s.sage close behind it stands the mausoleum of St. Bertrand, built in 1432. The stalls were erected in the 16th century, and are worthy of much attention.