It wandered from her care one day, (Oh, stupid little fool!) It made her cry her heart away While searching brake and pool.

And Jeannette tore her dress to rags, And scratched her hands and face; But of her dirty little lamb She couldn't find a trace.

The lamb fell in the river deep, But Jeannette never knew.

Though Satan finds some mischief still, For little lambs to do.

However, she listened very submissively till we had finished, and then wandered off again still searching for her lamb, while we retraced our steps.

There is a drive round the Argeles valley, which on a fine day is simply splendid, and ought certainly not to be missed. At ten a.m.

a landau with two good horses was at the door, and away we went towards Argeles station, across the line, over a new piece of road, and then across a rather shaky, but wholly quaint, wooden bridge (under which flows the Gave de Pau) to the base of the hills. As we continued along this road in the direction of Pierrefitte, the views of the mountains on the Argeles side were especially fine.

The Pic d'Arrens (7435 ft.) and the Col de Tortes (5903 ft.), with the wild Pic de Gabizos (8808 ft.) with its toothed summits, behind it--in the direction of Eaux Bonnes: over Pierrefitte the Pic de Soulom (5798 ft.), the Pic de Viscos (7025 ft.), and far up the Cauterets valley the Cabaliros (7655 ft.), the Pic de Laba.s.sa (9781 ft.), and the Pyramide de Peyrelance (8800 ft. about). An especially interesting part arrives, as the road approaches the wonderful old ruin of the Chateau de Beaucens (with "oubliettes"

towers, a "donjon" of the 14th century, and west walls of the 16th ditto), which stands on the left, not far from the village of the same name. Crossing the river again, we just managed to pa.s.s over some newly-laid road, to the village of Villelongue--above which, on the left, towers the imposing Pic de Villelongue--and soon after found ourselves beside the river again at the foot of the Pic de Soulom, where it is very lovely, and crossing another bridge, reached Soulom itself. It seemed to us an old and somewhat dirty town--not to say filthy--but the church is worthy of a visit. It was formerly fortified, and the construction of the belfry--if such it can be called--is curious. The inscription over the door, "This is the house of G.o.d and the gate of heaven," written in Latin, seems somewhat grotesque for such a building, although the dome is painted to represent the sky in all the "intensity" of a starlight night. A few yards along the road and we stood on the bridge over the "Gave de Cauterets," at the other side of which is Pierrefitte --and from which point the scenery is especially grand. Pa.s.sing the Hotel de la Poste (recommended) on the left, and the way to the station on the right, we bore up the hill in the former direction, towards St. Savin.

This old place--in fact the oldest village in the valley--is an easy walk from Argeles, and should certainly not be excluded from a visit. Having pa.s.sed the dismantled Chateau de Despourrins and the statue at the roadside erected in the poet's (Despourrins') honour, we had a grand glimpse of the valley below; and, leaving behind the Chapelle de Pietad (16th century), which stands on a point above the road, we entered the village. The street leading to the ancient Roman Church is ancient too, reminding one, in the curious construction of the houses, of Chester, the style of supporting the upper part on wooden beams, reaching over the road, and leaving a pa.s.sage beneath, being very similar. The church has been restored and is in capital preservation. As there were so many objects of interest, chiefly connected with the great St. Savin himself, we sent for the verger, s.e.xton, bellringer, parish beadle, or whatever the "goitreux" individual called himself, and paid great attention to all he had to say. Although a good deal was quite unintelligible, the following are some of the most interesting facts. Entering at the small side door, immediately within stands a curious and very old benitier (font), with two curious individuals carved in the stone supporting the basin. These are supposed to represent two "Cagots," a despised race for whom the font itself was constructed. Very few people know anything about their origin, but they were greatly detested by the inhabitants of the country, and not even allowed to worship in the same church, or use the same "holy water" as the rest. They still exist about Gavarnie and a few other spots, and we hope to learn more of them. The old battered organ next presents itself to the view, with the long flight of steps leading up to it, but as it wished to tell its own story, without further description behold

"THE ORGAN'S TALE."

Good people who gaze at my ruinous state, Don't lift up your noses and sneer: I've a pitiful story I wish to relate, And, I pray you, believe me sincere.

I was young, I was "sweet," in the years that are gone, The breath through my proud bosom rolled, And I loved to peal forth as the service went on, O'er the heads of the worshipping fold.

How time speeds along! Three whole centuries--yes!-- Have pa.s.sed since the day of my birth; And, good people, I thought myself then, you may guess, The loveliest organ on earth.

Such pipes and such stops! and a swell--such a swell!!!

My music rang under the dome; And the way that I held the old folks 'neath my spell You should know; but alas! they've gone "home."

Then my varnish was bright, and my panels were gay With devices both script'ral and quaint; I frightened the _sinner_ with hair turning grey, But charmed into rapture the _saint_.

Those faces once painted so brightly would smile, And put out their tongues at my voice; As the pedals were played, they would wag all the while, And the children below would rejoice.

Now is it not sad to have once been so grand, And now to be shattered and old?

To look but a ruin up here, where I stand Decidedly out in the cold?

Each "pipe is put out," and my "stops" are no more, I belong to a "period" remote; And as to the tongues that wagged freely of yore, They have long disappeared down the throat.

My pedals are broken or gone quite awry, My "keys"--you may "note"--are now dust; No longer a "swell"--not as faint as a sigh-- While my bellows, good people, are "bust."

I am twisted and worn, in a ruinous state, But prythee, good people, don't sneer!

My joys and my sorrows I've tried to relate, And in judging me don't be severe!!!

Leaving the organ, and pa.s.sing behind the "high altar," we beheld the tomb of the redoubtable saint, who is supposed to have been shut up there at the end of the 10th century, though the gilt ornament (?) above is some four centuries younger. The set of old paintings to the right and left represent scenes in the good man's life, who, if he had only changed the _i_ in his name to _o_--and the king would have agreed readily--by the perpetual allusion to _Savon_, would perhaps have done much for the natives generally.

The robing-room, wherein the head of the revered man is kept in a casket, and the "Salle du Chapitre," with quaint carvings of the 12th century, beyond, are other places of interest.

The "Chateau de Miramont," which adjoins, is now used as a convent (or college), and visitors are not permitted to inspect it. We bought a lithographed print of the church and its environs for half a franc, from our round-backed guide, besides depositing a "douceur" in his h.o.r.n.y palm, and consequently parted with him on the best of terms. The road for some distance being rather steep, we preferred to walk and let the carriage follow, but when nearing the junction with the Pierrefitte road, we mounted again and bowled along at a smart pace over the well-known bridge to the hotel.

There was nothing striking about our hotel life, although we found it pleasant, being a "parti carre." We were generally the sole partakers of the table-d'hote, at which the food was excellent, the jugged chamois (izard) being especially good. Light, however, was at a premium. It may have been all out of compliment, to bear testimony to our being "shining lights" ourselves; still, for all that, we should have been glad to forego the politeness, and receive, instead, a reinforcement of lamps.

Argeles itself is a peculiar old place; though devoid of much interest, except on market-days. The curious houses and towers, the street watercourses (as at Bagneres de Bigorre), the church, and the strange chapel-like building now used as a diocesan college, are all that is noteworthy even, excepting the "State schools,"

built three years ago.

On a Tuesday, when the market is in full swing, the square in front of the post-office looks bright and cheerful, and vegetables flourish. We took a very pleasant walk after pa.s.sing through the stalls, and down past the Hotel de France. The route we followed leads to the right, close by the new State schools, among some poor cottages, where it turns sharply in the opposite direction, and runs down beside some fine old chestnut trees to the river.

Continuing, the track leads up a fine glen, with views of the snow- peaks towards Eaux Bonnes, which well repaid our walk.

Returning again by the town, we wandered about through the narrow streets, taking a farewell survey before leaving for Cauterets, whither we were next intent.

There is another episode connected with Argeles, that will live in our memories, and it is one that future travellers, methinks, may have reason to appreciate, if not to endorse.

Everybody learns from unhappy experience how sour the bread is throughout the Pyrenees, only excepting two or three resorts, and as we were aware of the fact before leaving Pau, we arranged with Monsieur Kern, of the Austrian Bakery, Rue de la Prefecture, to send us a certain amount of bread every day. The first night at Argeles was spent without it, but on the evening of the following day a packet was brought into the drawing-room, where we were a.s.sembled, and at the magical word "bread" every eye brightened, and every face relaxed into a smile. Let no one cavil. This was one of the episodes that link Argeles to us with a pleasant charm.

CHAPTER V.

CAUTERETS.

Hotel de la Poste, Pierrefitte--The Gorge--Its majestic beauty--The resemblance to the Llanberis Pa.s.s--Mrs. Blunt becomes poetical--Zinc mines--Le Pont de Mediabat--Entering the town--The Rue Richelieu and Hotel du Parc--Winter's seal upon them still--Thermes des Oeufs--Thermes de Cesar--The Casino and Esplanade des Oeufs--A good dinner and the menu--The start for the Col de Riou--The Grange de la Reine Hortense--The pines--Miss Blunt's "exhortation to the first snow"--The dogs and their gambols--Defeated, but not discouraged--To the Cerizey Cascade--The baths of La Raillere, Pet.i.t St. Sauveur, and Le Pre--Cascade du Lutour--The Marcadau gorge--Scenery--Pic de Gaube--At the Cerizey Cascade--The Pont d'Espagne and Lac de Gaube--Pont de Benques--Lutour Valley--Various excursions up same--The "Pare"--Allees de Gambasque--The Peguere--The "PaG.o.da" Villa--Promenade du Mamelon Vert--The road's up again--Blows and blasts--The bishop's arrival--Enthusiasm, pomposity, and benedictions--The pilgrims at large--They start on an excursion--The market and Hotel de Ville--The grocer's opinion--Pyrenean dogs and their treatment--The dog-fancier--Smiles and temper--Bargaining displaced--No dog after all!

A Landau with four horses was ready after lunch, to transport us and our baggage to Cauterets; but having enjoyed Argeles very much, we were none of us particularly glad at the prospect of the change. The road as far as Pierrefitte, lovely as it is at this season of freshness, discloses no other views than those previously described, but when we turned sharply to the right, after pa.s.sing the Hotel de la Poste, and began the ascent towards Cauterets, then our eyes had indeed a rich treat. It would require the most dismal of dismal days, with sluicing rain and clouds low down on every beautiful crag and snow-tipped summit, to make anybody born with a soul above his dinner, complain of the grandeur of the gorge, or impugn the unceasing variety of dashing waterfalls, foaming river, freshly-opened leaves, white heather, and bright, flower-decked fields.

The same wild majesty as the Llanberis Pa.s.s presents, strikes one here: the enormous crags in threatening att.i.tude far up the heights, the chasms and fissures brightened by a patch of young gra.s.s or a small tree, and, nearer the road, the scattered boulders luxuriantly covered with moss and fern, belong to both alike; and, while the bushes of snowy heather, the constant splash of the cascades falling over the rocks in feathery spray, and in the distance the h.o.a.ry-headed monarchs of the range reaching up towards the sky, make this different from the familiar Welsh scene, it is only a difference that greatly intensifies the beauty and the charm of this Cauterets gorge.

Even Mrs. Blunt, who as a rule prefers the matter-of-fact to the poetical, was lifted out of herself, for she suddenly clutched me by the arm, and pointing in the distance, murmured something about "summits proudly lifting up to the sky," and being quite unused to that kind of thing, it took me some time to recover from the shock.

A little over three miles from Pierrefitte,--where a glimpse at the zinc mines and the wire tram in connection with them can be obtained--the road pa.s.ses over the bridge of Mediabat, and some yards beyond becomes identical with the old route, which until then lay below us. The new portion (made in 1874) only extends for about two miles, as it does not commence till after the zigzag rise from Pierrefitte leads into the gorge, but the engineering of the whole has been admirably carried out, and the ascent of nearly 1,700 feet in the six miles does not tell severely on the horses. Now in an almost straight line, now by zigzags, we gradually neared the town, the gorge widening at the same time, though the peaks, some covered with trees, some snow-covered, seemed to bar the way completely at no very great distance.

We were quite close before we could really be said to have seen the town, and ere we could form any opinion of it we drove up the Rue Richelieu and found ourselves at the Hotel du Parc. Monsieur Villeneuve, the jovial and experienced host, and his pleasant spouse, came out to welcome us, and although the hotel had only been open four days, made us as comfortable as they could.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CAUTERETS.]

Cauterets (3,254 feet) was only just waking into life, only two or three hotels, one or two hair-dressers, one confectioner's, one tobacconist's, and one or two grocers' shops were open; while of the bathing establishments, the "Thermes des Oeufs," the largest, and the Thermes de Cesar, were the only ones showing signs of renewed life.

The Esplanade des Oeufs, [Footnote: "Oeufs" because of the water's scent resembling "rotten eggs."] a large tree-planted s.p.a.ce in front of the princ.i.p.al "thermes" (just mentioned)--which serves as casino, concert-hall, and theatre as well--seemed utterly deserted; whereas in summer, with the band playing, the trees in full leaf, the booths opened, and the crowds of visitors, the scene must be the gayest of the gay. We had just time to notice so much, on the afternoon of our arrival, before the sun set behind the huge mountains which surround this charming spot and the hour of dinner arrived. This dinner was so excellent, so well cooked and served, that, although we despise with a deep-rooted scorn the wretched cla.s.s of individuals who make their dinner their main object in life, we nevertheless consider that we are only paying a merited tribute to the _chef_ in saying that the cooking was always of a high standard, and quoting as a specimen the evening's _menu_ (May 1):

SOUP.

Gravy.

FISH.

Salmon, with sliced potatoes and melted b.u.t.ter.

MADE DISHES.

Hashed Veal. Sauce Piquante.

Sweetbreads and green peas.

ROAST.

Chicken.

VEGETABLES.

Asparagus. Potatoes (new).