We are still carrying pleasant memories of that lunch. There was potage St. Germain, made as only the French can make it. The oil for the salade was from the neighboring olive groves of Provençe. The haricots verts picked that morning in the garden, the raisins fresh from the vineyard. Best of all were the mushroom patties. One portion called for another. Our hostess was pleased; there was no mistaking our genuine appreciation of her cooking. Interrupting her culinary labors, she told us that the mushrooms were of her own canning. Each year it was necessary to lay in a larger supply. Tourists had found them so good that, on leaving, they had left orders for shipment to their home addresses. Now she was planning to erect a small factory. Her recital was interrupted by a Frenchman, who implored "une troisième portion." He purchased a dozen cans of mushrooms, and if they had been gold nuggets he could not have stowed them away more carefully in his car. The French are authorities when it is a question of good things to eat.

The road to Orange was like a continuous leafy arbor. This shimmering arcade was too refreshingly cool to be covered quickly. On the outskirts of Orange we halted to see the Arc de Triomphe, a wonderful echo from the age of Tiberius. The arch stands in a circular grassy plot and the road divides, as if this product of the Roman mind were too precious to be exposed to the accidents of ordinary traffic.

The antique theater at the other end of the town is just as remarkable for architectural splendor. It is not enough to say that this structure is the largest and most magnificent of its kind in the world. It is also the best preserved. Every year in August dramatic and lyrical performances are given by La Comédie Française. Thus, after nearly twenty centuries, the theater is still serving its original purpose. We were impressed by the auditory facilities. One of us stood on the lowest tier of seats, and the other on the topmost row. Even a whisper was distinctly audible. The erection of buildings with such perfect acoustics may perhaps be classed among the lost arts.

Southward from Orange, the country began to look more like Italy. Olive and mulberry trees were more numerous. The cypress trees, so often seen in Italian cemeteries, gave an impression of solemnity, almost of melancholy, to the country. At times they fringed the highway or stood alone upon the horizon like a distant steeple against a crimson sunset.

The twilight was full of a brooding, dreamy silence as of communion with the past. This is the atmosphere of Provençe, an atmosphere of "old, forgotten, far-off things and battles long ago." If one is interested in wonderful ruins that suggest the might of Rome's empire, then let him go to Provençe, that part of southern France where the Romans founded their provincia, and where they built great cities. We found the hotels rather dreary. The towns were quiet. Many of them, like Pierrelatte, looked so poor. The streets were dirty and littered. One notices these things at first, and then forgets them, the air is so clear, the sunshine so dazzling, the horizons so distinct, the stars so bright.

Much of the country is barren and rocky. But the rocks as well as the ruins have a rich, golden brown color from being steeped for centuries in this bright southern sun. The people are romantic, impractical, happy in their poverty, singing amid grinding routine. They have their own dialect, which is very musical. Even the names of their towns and cities are full of music, for example, Montélimar, Avignon, Carcassonne. The country, with its Roman ruins, its bright sun, its rich color, its laughter, and song, is like another Italy. Nowhere except in that land do we come so close to the great things of Roman antiquity.

We reached the Grand Hôtel in Avignon at nightfall, but dined outside that we might the better observe the life of the people. The sweet voice of an Italian street singer made it easy for us to imagine ourselves under the skies of Florence or Naples. Avignon is the most Italian looking city in France.

The following morning was devoted to rambling. Sometime we must spend a week in this interesting walled city on the Rhone, where the popes lived between 1305 and 1377 in the huge palace that resembles a fortress. If there were nothing to Avignon but its high mediæval walls and watch towers, the place would be worth a long pilgrimage. These gray ramparts, apparently new, were actually built in the fourteenth century. What a picture they gave us of stormy feudal times, when even the Church was compelled to seek safety behind strong walls!

The Palais des Papes is a colossal structure. We have forgotten what pope it was who was besieged here for years by a French army, and then escaped by the postern; it does not matter. The palace walls looked high and thick enough to defy all attack. The scenes of vice and profligacy during this period must have rivaled the court life of an ancient Roman emperor. There was one pope, John XXII, who in eighteen years amassed a fortune of eighteen million gold florins in specie, not to mention the trifling sum of seven millions in plate and jewels. Perhaps it was just as well for the popes of that time that the walls of their fortress towers were high and thick.

Above the palace of the popes and the adjoining cathedral is the Promenade des Doms, a public garden. We followed one of the paths that led along the edge of a high precipice. This view is one of the sights of Avignon. It embraces the valley of the Rhone, the swiftest river in France. The rapid current winds and disappears. Nearly opposite, on the other shore, is the village of Villeneuve. It is desolate enough now, with no trace of the beautiful villas which the cardinals built and where they were wont to revel amid luxury after the day's duties at the palace. Beyond the town we could see the stately towers of Fort St. André, in that early period a frontier fortress of France, so jealous of the growing power of the papacy. Most appealing of all, was the broken bridge of St. Benezet, resisting with its few remaining arches the hastening Rhone. Above one of the piers is the little Chapel of St. Nicholas. The bridge is a romantic relic of the gay life of Avignon when the city was the refuge of the popes. Daudet, in his Lettres de mon Moulin, tells us that the streets were too narrow for the farandole, so the people would place the pipes and tambourine on the bridge and there, in the fresh wind of the Rhone, they would dance and sing.

The distance to Nîmes was so short that we decided to motor there for lunch, see the vast Roman amphitheater and the world-famous Maison Carrée, and then push on to Montpellier, where we planned to spend the night and perhaps remain for a day or so.

The ride was more memorable for the oppressive heat than for any particular charm of scenery. It was noon when we crossed the river and looked back for a last view of the huge Palais des Papes. The sun blazed upon the white road, which quivered like white heat. There were few trees. The engine hood was so hot that we could not touch it. It would not have surprised us if one tire, or all of them, had burst; they probably would have done so if we had gone much farther. The glare was so intense that we entirely overlooked the little octroi station on the edge of the town. We, however, were not overlooked. Some one was shouting and waving a hundred yards behind us. It was not inspiring to back slowly through our own dust to convey the valuable information that we carried nothing dutiable. Of course, at a time like this, the engine refused to start. After vigorously "cranking" for a quarter of an hour, and suffering all the sensations of sunstroke, we moved on to the Hôtel du Luxembourg for déjeuner.

Among our recollections of the lunch at this hotel were the ripe, purple figs. There is no reason why we should confess how quickly this delicious fruit disappeared. Farther north, in Berlin, such figs would have been a luxury, and might have appeared for sale at a fancy price in some store window. In Nîmes they were served as a regular part of the lunch. We could almost have traced our trip southward by the fruits that were served us from time to time.

The broad boulevards and shady avenues of Nîmes form a small part of the attractions of this prosperous city. There are fine theaters and cafés, especially the cafés with tables and chairs extending into the streets to accommodate the crowds of thirsty patrons. It was pleasant to be a part of this typically French environment, to watch this group or that, with their gestures, shrugging of shoulders, laughter, and rapid conversation. Many phases of French life pass before so advantageous an observation point.

But Nîmes is not simply a modern city. Nowhere else in France, not even in Orange, does one get a clearer idea of what the splendor of Roman civilization must have been. Provincia was a favorite and favored province of the empire; Nîmes was the center of provincial life. For five centuries the different emperors took turns in enriching and embellishing it. We visited the Maison Carrée, most perfect of existing Roman temples, inspected the gateway called the Porte d'Auguste, looked up at the Tour Magne, a Roman tower, saw the remains of the Roman baths, and then made our way to the amphitheater, smaller than the Colosseum but so wonderfully preserved that you simply lose track of the centuries. The great stones, fitting so evenly without cement, have that same rich, golden brown color, the prevailing color tone of Provençe. We entered the amphitheater through one of many arcades, the same arcades through which so many generations of toga-clad Romans had passed to applaud the gladiatorial combats. Now the people go there to see the bull fights which are held three or four times a year. On that particular afternoon a large platform had been erected for the orchestra in the middle of the arena. Open-air concerts are very popular in Nîmes during the summer.

It was something of a shock to pass from these scenes of Roman life by a jump into a motor car—the amphitheater illustrating the grandeur of Rome's once imperial sway, the motor car symbolizing the spirit of our rushing modern age. The contrast was startling.

CHAPTER VI
NÎMES TO CARCASSONNE

There was abundance of time to arrive in Montpellier before dark, so we let the speedometer waver between thirty and thirty-five kilometers. The road was hardly a model of smoothness. We were not always enthusiastic about the roads in the Midi. On the whole, they were not much more than average, and not so good as we had expected to find them after that first experience on the Route Nationale to Chambéry. Where there was a bad place in the road we usually saw a pile of loose stones waiting to be used for repair, but many of these piles looked as though they had been waiting a long time. The roads are apparently allowed to go too long before receiving attention. Owing to the increasing amount of heavy traffic, the deterioration in recent years has been more rapid than formerly. In some of the provinces, like Touraine, there were short stretches of roadway in urgent need of repair. With conditions as they now are, the money voted by the government is insufficient to keep up the standard of former years. England now expends more than twice as much per mile as France, but while the French roads are in danger of losing to England the supremacy they have so long enjoyed, we cannot state too clearly that, taken as a whole, they are still the finest on the Continent. It is probable that the present signs of decadence are only temporary. The government is fully alive to the needs of the hour. In all probability the movement headed by President Poincaré more fully to open up the provinces to motor-tourist travel will have a good effect upon road conditions.

It would be hard to find a small French city which makes such a pleasant first impression as Montpellier; there is such an atmosphere of culture. One does not need to be told that this is a university town. Municipal affairs seem to be well regulated; the hôtel de ville would do credit to a much larger city. We discovered an open-air restaurant located upon an attractive place. The garçon, after receiving a preliminary pourboire, served us so well that we returned there the next day.

Everybody who visits Montpellier will remember the Promenade de Peyrou which rises above the town. The scenic display is great. Only a few miles away, and in clear view, tosses the restless Mediterranean. The prospect made us realize how far south we had come since the starting of our tour from Berlin. Another interesting bit of sight-seeing in the neighborhood is the Jardin des Plantes, a remarkable botanical garden which was founded as far back as 1593 by Henry IV, and is said to be the oldest in France.

Whatever the indictment against French roads in the Midi, the stretch from Montpellier to Carcassonne was above reproach. Much of the way it was the French highway at its best. Wide-spreading trees arched our route. We would have been speeding every foot of the distance if the beautiful scenery had not acted as a constant brake. For a little way we ran close to the sea. The fresh salt breeze fanned our faces. It was a rare glimpse of the Mediterranean. This enchanting scene lasted but a moment, for the road swerved into the great vineyards of the Midi, an Arcadian land of peace and plenty, the home of a wine industry celebrated since Roman times. As far as the eye could reach, nothing but these green waves that billowed and rolled away from either side of the road. There was a touch of fall in the air, a glint of purple amid the green. Ripening suns and tender rains had done their work. The road led through Béziers, bustling center of preparations for the harvest. On several occasions we passed a wagon loaded with wine casks so large that three horses with difficulty drew it. The capacity of those huge casks must have been thousands of gallons.

At Béziers we could have taken the direct route to Toulouse, but then we would have missed seeing Carcassonne, the most unique architectural curiosity in France and perhaps in the whole world. Our roundabout course brought us to Capestang, a scattered peasant village inhabited by laborers in the vineyards. The luxuries and even the ordinary conveniences seemed far away from these homes. The shutters consisted of nothing but a couple of boards bolted or nailed together and clumsily working on a hinge. It was a region of flies; certainly they had invaded the little inn where we lunched. A heavy green matting tried ineffectually to take the place of a screen door, and let in thousands of unbidden guests. Under these circumstances our lunch was a hasty one. As the noontide heat was too great to permit a start, we gladly accepted the invitation of our hôtesse to see the church. The cool interior induced us to prolong our acquaintance with the sacred relics and to admire with our guide a statue of St. Peter whose halo had become somewhat dimmed by the dust of centuries.

The afternoon's ride to Carcassonne was in the face of a strong wind. It was our first experience with the mistral, a curious and disagreeable phenomenon of Provençe. There was no let-up to the storms of dust it swept over us. There were no clouds; simply this incessant wind that hurled its invisible forces against the car, at times with such violence that we were almost standing still. A heavy rainstorm would have been preferable; at least we would not then have been so blinded by the dust. Occasionally the shelter of the high hills gave a brief respite from the choking gusts.

All at once we forgot about the wind. In full view from the road was a hill crowned by the towers and ramparts of a mediæval city, a marvelous maze of battlements, frowning and formidable as if the enemy were expected any moment. We rode on to la ville basse, the other and more modern Carcassonne, a little checkerboard of a city with streets running at right angles and so different from the usual intricate streets of mediæval origin. Securing rooms at the Grand Hôtel St. Bernard, we hastened back, lest in the meantime an apparition so mirage-like should have disappeared. The first view of this silent, fortified city makes one believe that the imagination has played tricks. There is something fairy-like and unreal in the vision. It seems impossible that so majestic a spectacle could have survived the ages in a form so perfect and complete.

Carcassonne had always been one of our travel dreams. From somewhere back in high-school days came the memory of a French poem about an old soldier, a veteran of the Napoleonic wars, who longed to see la cité. One day he started on his pilgrimage, but he was sick and feeble. His weakness increased, and death overtook him while the journey was still unfinished. He never saw Carcassonne. Since that time we had wondered what kind of place it was that had made such an impression upon the French writers, and induced the French government to make of it a monument historique.

At that moment, as we climbed the hill, the past seemed more real than the present. We looked for armored knights upon the wall, and listened for the rattle of weapons, the sharp challenge of the sentry. Crossing the drawbridge over the deep moat, we were conducted by the gardien along the walls and through the fighting-towers, great masses of masonry that had known so often the horrors of attack and siege. In this double belt of fortifications there were sentinel stations and secret tunnels by which the city was provisioned in time of war. Here, was a wall that the Romans had built; there, a tower constructed by the Visigoths; and all so well preserved, as if there were no such thing as the touch of time or the flight of centuries. Other places, like Avignon, show the military architecture of the Middle Ages, but it is the work of a single epoch. The defenses of Carcassonne show all the systems of military architecture from Roman times to the fourteenth century. Nowhere in the world can be found such a perfect picture of the military defenses of the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries. The walls and the huge round towers tell their own thrilling tales of Roman occupation, of Visigothic triumph, and of conquering Saracen. Then we could understand why the old French soldier longed to see Carcassonne, and why tourists from all over the world include the city in their itinerary of places that must be visited.

From our lofty observation point on the ramparts there was visible a great range of country, the slender windings of the river Aude, the foothills of the Pyrenees, and the vague summits of the Cévennes. We followed a silent grass-grown street to the church of St. Nazaire. It was beautiful to see the windows of rare Gothic glass in the full glow of the setting sun. Such burning reds, such brilliant blues and purples! "C'est magnifique comme c'est beau." A French family was standing near us. Before leaving the church, we looked back. They were still under the spell of that glory of color.

There may have been an elevator in the Grand Hôtel St. Bernard, but we were not successful in locating it. In a general way, this modest hostelry was of the same type which one finds in most of the small French cities like Valence and Avignon. We were of course greatly interested in gathering and comparing impressions of provincial hotel life. This was particularly interesting in a country like France, where the provinces with their rural and small-town life represent to such a marked degree the nation as a whole. It is always an instructive experience to discover how other countries live, and to compare their standard of living with our own. The hotel life of any country, if we keep away from fashionable tourist centers, usually gives an illuminating insight into the customs of that people. We had often noticed that the French are indifferent to matters relating to domestic architecture. So long as the kitchen performs its functions well, so long as the quality of the cuisine is above criticism, it does not matter if the rooms are small and gloomy or if the architect forgets to put a bathroom in the house. The Frenchman likes to dine well. The café ministers to his social life. But with these important questions settled to his satisfaction, he is not inclined to be too exacting about his domestic environment.

If we keep in mind these general observations, it will be easier for us to understand the defects and advantages of the French provincial hotel. Most of the hotels where we passed the night would not begin to compare, in many ways, with the hotels to be found in American towns of the same size. We noticed a characteristic lack of progressiveness in so many respects. It was exceptional to find running hot and cold water. The corridors were narrow and gloomy, the electric light poor for reading. If there was an elevator, it usually failed to work. Bathing facilities were on the same primitive scale. The attractions of the writing room were conspicuous for their absence. In France it is usually the writing room that suffers most; either it is a gloomy, stuffy chamber, more fitted to be a closet than a place for correspondence, or else located with no idea of privacy, and in full view of everyone coming in and going out. There were no cheerful lounging or smoking rooms. Had it been winter, the heating facilities would probably have left much to be desired, and we might often have repeated our experience at the Hôtel Touvard in Romans. It was January, and very cold. Arriving early in the afternoon, we found that our rooms had absorbed a large part of the frigidity of out-of-doors. Complaints were fruitless. We were informed that it was not the custom of the hotel management to heat the rooms before seven o'clock in the evening.

In our selection of hotels we followed the advice contained in the excellent Michelin Guide, which has a convenient way of placing two little gables opposite the names of hotels above the average. While they were not pretentious, the quality of service was surprisingly good. We could always get hot water when we wanted it. The maître de l'hôtel was always on the alert to render our stay as comfortable as possible, and to give us any information to facilitate sight-seeing. Most of the hotels had electric lights, such as they were; the bedrooms were clean and comfortable, the cuisine faultless. If it be true that one pays as high as two francs for a bath, that is because bathing among the French is more of the nature of a ceremony than a habit. As for the small and neglected writing room, we must remember that in France the café usurps that function of the American hotel. This is a national custom. How the Frenchman lives in his café! Here he comes before lunch for his aperitif, to discuss business or politics, to write letters, to read the newspapers and play games, to enjoy his tasse de café after lunch, and in summer to while away the drowsy hours of the early afternoon while listening to open-air music.

It was pleasant to meet in Carcassonne two American students from Joliet, Illinois, who were making a long European tour on "Indian" motor cycles. One of them had received not less than six punctures the preceding day and was awaiting in Carcassonne the arrival of another tire. He was beginning to be a little doubtful about the perfect joys of motor cycling on the French roads. Neither of them spoke French, but their resourceful American gestures had up to that point extricated them from situations both humorous and annoying.

CHAPTER VII
CARCASSONNE TO TARBES

Our ride toward Toulouse led us steadily into southwestern France and nearer the Pyrenees. From time to time the landscape, with its fields of fodder corn, was peculiarly American. The illusion never lasted long; a château appeared on a distant hill, or a sixteenth-century church by the roadside, and we were once more in Europe, with its ancient architecture and historical association, with its infinite change of scenery and life.

Our trip never grew monotonous. There was always the element of the unexpected. For instance, in the village of Villefranche we rode into the midst of a local fête. Banners overhung the road; flags were flying from the windows; ruddy-cheeked girls in gay peasant dress were practicing in the dusty street a rustic two-step or farandole in preparation for the harvest dance.

While entering Toulouse we narrowly escaped disaster. It was not late, but our depleted funds made it necessary to reach a bank before closing time. Suddenly a bicycle rider shot out from a cross street. There was a "whish" as we grazed his rear wheel. The infinitesimal fraction of an inch means a good deal sometimes.

We were too late; the banks were closed. The next day was a business holiday, and the following day was Sunday. Our letter-of-credit would not help us before Monday. But as luck would have it, we were able to discover and fall back upon a few good American express checks. Our hotel, the Tiviolier, gave us a poor rate of exchange, but almost any exchange would have looked good at that poverty-stricken moment.

Toulouse, the flourishing and lively capital of Languedoc, is a city of brick still awaiting its Augustus to make of it a city of marble. The old museum must have been a splendid monastery. We dined in three different restaurants, and fared sumptuously in them all. The cassoulet of Toulouse was so good that we tried to order it in other towns. The experiences of the day very fittingly included a trolley ride along the banks of the famous Canal du Midi, and a visit to the remarkable church of St. Sernin, considered the finest Romanesque monument in France.

It would have been difficult not to make an early start the next morning, the air was so keenly exhilarating. The usually turbid Garonne revealed limpid depths and blue skies as we crossed the bridge. The road dipped into a valley and then, ascending, spread before us imposing mountain ranges. The Pyrenees were in sight; every mile brought them nearer. The name was magical. It suggested landscapes colorful and lovely, strange types of peasant dress, songs that had been sung the same way for centuries, exquisite villages that had never been awakened by the locomotive's whistle. Range retreated behind range into mysterious cloud realms. The road was like a boulevard Parisien under the black bars of shadow cast by the poplar trees.

At St. Gaudens, where we stopped before the Hôtel Ferrière for lunch, an American party was just arriving from the opposite direction. There were three middle-aged ladies and a French chauffeur who did not appear to understand much English. The question of what they should order for lunch was evidently not settled. One of them wished to order potage St. Germain. Another thought it would be better to have something else for a change, since they had partaken of potage St. Germain the preceding day. The remaining member of the party was sure it would be nicer if they saved time by all ordering the same thing, but did not suggest what that should be. The chauffeur, who looked hungry and cross, merely contributed a long-suffering silence to the conversation.

Leaving our car in the garage and our sympathy with the unfortunate chauffeur, we went in to give appreciative attention to a well-served ménu. So long as we remained in France we never failed to order sardines. There is a certain quality and delicacy about the flavor of the French sardine which one misses outside of that country. Coffee was served outside, under the trees in front of the hotel, where we could watch the life of the road. St. Gaudens is on the main highway passing through the Pyrenees to Cannes and Nice on the Riviera. It is also the central market for the fine cattle of the Pyrenees, and for their sale and distribution to other parts of France and the outside world. We could see them swaying lazily along the road, big, powerful creatures with wide horns and glossy skin.

Descending from St. Gaudens into the plain, we shot along the highway to Montréjeau, where there was a steep ascent through this bizarre little town, very Italian looking with its arcaded streets, red roofs, and brightly painted shutters. Then the moors of a high plateau swept by us until we darted downward and curved for several miles through a beautiful wooded valley.

One of the front tires was evidently in trouble. It was our first puncture in more than thirteen hundred miles of motoring, not a bad record when one considers the frequency of such accidents on European roads, where the hobnails of peasants lie in ambush at every turn. We halted by the side of the road, to put on a fresh tire, refusing many offers of assistance from passing cars.

An unusual reception awaited us near Tournay. The whole barnyard family had taken the road for their private promenade. There were a couple of mules, some goats, half a dozen geese, and a large white bull. He was a savage looking brute as he stood facing us and angrily pawing the ground. It did not add to our composure when a gaunt collie, awakened by the noise, came snarling up to the car. At this eventful moment, the engine stopped running. No one of us was in a hurry to alight and "crank up." The barnyard clamor would have rivaled the well-known symphony of the Edison Phonograph Company of New York and Paris. At last a peasant appeared. He whistled to the dog and succeeded in driving the bull to one side, so that we could edge by to less dangerous scenes.

The standard of living in these mountain communities is not high. We saw one farmhouse where the goats moved in and out as if very much at home and on the same social footing as their peasant owners. A mile farther on, we were spectators at a dance which the peasants were giving along the roadside. There was an orchestra of two violins and a cornet, enthroned upon a wooden platform brightly decorated with flags and flowers. A dozen couples were dancing up and down the road. Wooden shoes were all the style. This unique ballroom floor impressed us as being rather dusty. Steepsided valleys yawned in quick succession. There were views of the snowy Pyrenees. On the side of a mountain we caught a moment's glimpse of Tarbes in the plain.

The Grand Hôtel Moderne was a happy surprise. The elevator actually worked, and the running hot and cold water was a boon delightful to find after these dusty mountain roads. Tarbes is chiefly interesting for its great horse-breeding industry. Barère, the regicide, described by Macaulay as coming "nearer than any person mentioned in history or fiction, whether man or devil, to the idea of consummate and universal depravity," was born here in 1755. Tourist traffic has found Tarbes to be a convenient stopping place on the through route from Biarritz on the Atlantic to the winter resorts of the Mediterranean shores, and also a natural center for excursions to the Pyrenees. We remained in Tarbes an extra day to make the trip to Lourdes, the tragic Mecca for increasing thousands of Catholic pilgrims.

A short half-hour's ride and then Lourdes, without doubt one of the most dismal and melancholy places in the world. We are certain that nothing would ever draw us there again. For many, the trip is a pilgrimage of faith; others go from curiosity; but for so many suffering thousands the miraculous spring at Lourdes is the goal of anxious hopes. They gather from all parts of France, from England, Scotland, and Ireland, and even from distant parts of Europe. Last year there were over six hundred thousand visitors. Around us, on that afternoon, we saw the sick and the dying. Some were hobbling along on crutches, others walking helplessly with sightless eyes. Many were being carried on stretchers, and there were sights that we would rather not mention. It seemed as if all the diseases to which mortal humanity is heir were represented in that pathetic throng. The following newspaper account describes the pilgrimage which left Paris in August, 1913:

"The great Austerlitz Railway station in Paris presented a strange and terrible scene—and above all, a distressingly pitiful one—yesterday afternoon, when the annual pilgrimage to Lourdes set forth on the long journey to the little Pyrenean village. During last night thirty-three special long trains converged on Lourdes from every quarter of France. Every train ran slowly because of the many sick people on board. And this morning all the trains will reach their destination and will discharge their pilgrims at the station near the shrine.

"From two to four o'clock, the greater part of the Austerlitz station was given up entirely to the pilgrims. The railway servants withdrew, and their places were taken by hundreds of saintly faced Little Sisters of the Assumption, and brave men of all ages and all ranks in life, all wearing the broad armlet that denoted their self-sacrificing service to the sick and helpless. One by one, on stretchers, in bath chairs, over a thousand suffering people, men and women of all ages, youths and little children, entered the great hall of the station.

"Each, as he or she is brought in, is laid upon a bench transformed into an ambulance, to await the departure of the train. A silence that is almost oppressive falls upon the usually noisy station; people speak in whispers, and move with silent feet.

"Then the train—the long white train for the grands malades—moves softly in to the platform, and each poor human parcel is gently convoyed to its allotted place. Eventually, the long task is over, and then came the last moving ceremony. The Cardinal Archbishop of Paris passed slowly down the train and blessed the sick within it. A moment after, without a whistle or a sound, the long white train moved out.

"Eight other equally long trains followed, the last bearing at the rear the Red Cross flag."

We watched the procession forming to move toward the sacred miraculous spring, such a sad procession,—the halt, the maimed, and the blind, who had come, many of them, thousands of miles to bathe in the icy waters and be healed. Attendants passed us, carrying a sick man on a stretcher; the eyes were closed, the features white and fixed. We saw a mother clasping a sick child; she also joined the slow, pitiful procession. Where will you find such a picture of human suffering! It was all like the incurable ward of a vast open-air hospital.

The fame of Lourdes dates back to 1858, when a little village girl, fourteen years old, named Bernadette Soubirons, said that she had seen and talked with the Virgin. This happened several times. Each time the Virgin is said to have commanded the child to tell others, and to have a church built above the spring, since its waters were to have miraculous powers of healing. Crowds went with her to the grotto, but she was the only one who saw anything. The Bishop of Tarbes believed in her visions. The fact that the child was "diseased, asthmatic, and underfed," and also that "she was not particularly intelligent," did not make any difference. Pope Pius X issued a Bull of endorsement. A basilica was built above the grotto, and from that time the thousands kept coming in increasing numbers every year.

We noticed that not all of the visitors to Lourdes had come on a pilgrimage of faith. Everywhere one sees signs with large letters warning against pickpockets. The evidence of business enterprise was also unmistakable. There were large hotels; one long street was devoted to bazaars for selling pious mementos; the windows of many shops contained tin cans of all sizes for sale, these to be filled with Lourdes water. The many advertisements of Lourdes lozenges, made from Lourdes water, and the women dressed in black, sitting at the gates of the garden and selling wax candles, all helped to give the place an atmosphere of commercial enterprise.

CHAPTER VIII
TARBES TO BIARRITZ

From Tarbes the road climbed a high hill above the city and then flung its marvelous coils through the mountains to Pau, that fashionable English resort where the Pyrenees can be seen marshaling their peaks in such grandeur. The country around Pau looked very English. There were neat villages with high-pitched roofs, spreading trees, and a feeling of repose in the scenery very characteristic of the large English estate. With almost fantastic suddenness, the landscape changed. Peasant houses showed traces of Spanish influence. We saw no horses; plows and country carts were drawn by bullocks. Such fine looking cattle of the Pyrenees, hundreds of them! It seemed at least every few minutes that a new drove crowded in confusion down the road or across it, and made it very difficult for us to get through. There were many bulls. One hears so many exciting tales about the savage bulls of the Pyrenees that we were prepared for an attack at almost any time.

If any one would like to make sure of having an eventful experience, we suggest that he motor through the Pyrenees in a red car. Other motor cars kept the dust clouds flying. At one railway crossing we counted ten automobiles waiting for the bar to be lifted.

A score of hungry motorists were lunching in the village inn of Orthez when we arrived. One of them, a Frenchman, told us by all means to see the curious fortified bridge that crosses the Gave in this village. "C'est très curieux. C'est quelque chose à voir!" The ruin, with the high stone tower in the middle of the bridge, is a thrilling relic of the religious wars. One can see the tower window through which the unfortunate priests and friars were forced by the Protestants to leap into the rapid stream. Those who breasted the strong current were killed as they climbed out on the banks.

Bayonne was calling us. Our speedometer registered the kilometers so quickly that there were fully two hours of daylight to spare when we crossed the long bridge over the Adour in search of the Grand Hôtel. One street led us astray, and then another, until we were in the suburbs before discovering our mistake. It was a fortunate mistake, for we were here favored with a view of the fortifications of Bayonne and the ivy-covered ruin of Marrac, the château where Napoleon met the Spanish king Ferdinand and compelled him to renounce the throne in favor of his brother Joseph. It is one of the strange turnings of history that the same city where Joseph was proclaimed King of Spain should have witnessed, six years later, the downfall of his hopes.

Our return search was more successful. We found the Grand Hôtel, and then were half sorry that we had found it. The hotel was crowded, the only chambre placed at our disposal not large enough for two people. An extra cot had been put in to meet the emergency. The room was gloomy, and opened on a stuffy little court. Many repairs were under way, so that the appearance of the hotel was far from being at its best. Had it not been raining heavily we would have gone on to Biarritz; but the torrents were descending. For one night we submitted to the inevitable and to the inconvenience of our cramped quarters. On descending, we noticed other tourists still arriving. Possibly these new victims were stowed away in the elevator or in the garage.

Our stay in Bayonne was, under the circumstances, not long, but long enough for us to become acquainted with the jambon delicieux and the bonbons for which the city is so well known. After paying our compte, including a garage charge of two francs,—the first which we had paid since leaving Chambéry,—we covered the few remaining kilometers to Biarritz, stopping en route to pick up ten liters of gasoline in order to avoid the more extravagant prices of that playground for Europe's royalty and aristocracy. The choicest feature of our rooms at the Hôtel Victoria was the splendid outlook upon the Atlantic and its ever-changing panorama of sky and sea. The Spanish season was in full swing. There is always a season in the golden curve of Biarritz's sunny sands. The Spanish invasion during the hot summer months is followed by that of the French, when Parisian beauties promenade in all the voluptuous array of costly toilettes. For a couple of months, Paris ceases to be the proud capital of French animation and gayety. During the winter, the place takes on the appearance of an English colony; and the Russian royal family has made spring a fashionable time for the invasion from that country.

The charm of Biarritz is irresistible. It is easy to see why Napoleon III made it the seat of his summer court and built the Villa Eugénie, which has since become the Hôtel du Palais. If one searched the whole coast line of Europe, it would be hard to find a spot so rich in natural beauty. The sea has such wide horizons; no matter how calm the weather, the snowy surges are always rolling on the Grande Plage. Other smaller beaches alternate with rugged, rocky promontories. The coast line is very irregular, full of arcades, caverns, and grottoes. At sunset, when the wind falls and the air is clear, the coast of Spain appears, the mountains respond to the western glow, and the low cadence of the waves makes the scene too wonderful for words.

We always looked forward to the morning plunge into the cool breakers. Eleven o'clock was the popular hour. Then the Plage was covered with brilliant tent umbrellas. There were the shouts of the bathers as the green, foaming combers swept over them. The beach was a kaleidoscope of color and animation. Dark-eyed señoritas, carrying brightly colored parasols and robed in the latest and most original French toilettes, walked along the shore. The Spanish women are very fond of dress, and especially of anything that comes from Paris. Often the breeze would sweep aside their veils of black silk, and show their powder-whitened faces. French girls, daintily gowned and with complexions just as "artistic," were busy with delicate embroidery. There were Basque nursemaids whose somber black-and-white checkerboard costumes contrasted with the latest styles from the gay metropolis. All types were there, from the portly German who adjusted his monocle before wading into the frothy brine, to the contemplative Englishman who smoked his pipe while watching the animated scenes around him. Where will one find a more cosmopolitan glimpse of fashionable Europe in the enjoyment of a summer holiday! After the plunge comes the drying off on the warm sands, or the walk, barefooted and in bathrobe, along the Plage; then lunch in the casino restaurant above the sea, while an Italian orchestra plays music that one likes to hear by the ocean. For our tasse de café we would choose one of the cafés along the crowded avenue Bellevue. What a display of wealth and fine motor cars!