CAUTERETS.
Hotel de la Poste, Pierrefitte--The Gorge--Its majestic beauty--The
resemblance to the Llanberis Pass--Mrs. Blunt becomes poetical--Zinc
mines--Le Pont de Médiabat--Entering the town--The Rue Richelieu and
Hôtel du Parc--Winter's seal upon them still--Thermes des
Oeufs--Thermes de César--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 Cérizey Cascade--The baths of La Raillère, Petit St. Sauveur, and
Le Pré--Cascade du Lutour--The Marcadau gorge--Scenery--Pic de
Gaube--At the Cérizey Cascade--The Pont d'Espagne and Lac de
Gaube--Pont de Benqués--Lutour Valley--Various excursions up same--The
"Pare"--Allées de Gambasque--The Peguère--The "Pagoda" 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 Hôtel 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 Argelès 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 passing the Hôtel 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 Pass presents, strikes one here:
the enormous crags in threatening attitude far up the heights, the
chasms and fissures brightened by a patch of young grass 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 hoary-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 passes over the bridge of Médiabat, 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 Hôtel 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.
[Illustration: 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 César, 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 space in front of
the principal "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 class 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 butter.
MADE DISHES.
Hashed Veal. Sauce Piquante.
Sweetbreads and green peas.
ROAST.
Chicken.
VEGETABLES.
Asparagus. Potatoes (new).
PUDDING.
Sago.
ICE, &c.
Vanilla cream.
Cheese, Jelly, and Biscuits.
When we woke the following morning, the sun shining from a cloudless
sky proclaimed an "excursion morning." Accordingly, we sent for a
guide, to inquire if a visit to the Lac de Gaube was practicable. The
guide arrived, and disappointment ensued. It was possible to go if we
didn't mind a few miles of snow, two feet deep and upwards. But we did
mind very strongly, and said so. Then the burly native spoke again, and
said that the Col de Riou was an easy trip, that we could take horses
to within a short distance of the summit, and that when we got there
the splendid view would include St. Sauveur, Argelès, Barèges,
Gavarnie, &c. &c. And we answered the burly native in his sister tongue
(_patois_ was his mother tongue), or as near to it as we could,
and said, "Have three horses ready by half-past ten at this hotel, and
we will start." Then, delighted, he smiled and bowed, and disappeared
down the street.
At eleven o'clock the cavalcade started, and a noble cavalcade it was:
Miss Blunt on a strong dark bay pony, Mr. Sydney on a similar-coloured
horse, and myself on a grey, formed the van; then came our burly friend
(by name Pont Dominique), and another guide (Berret), carrying the
lunch; and the rear was brought up by a small brindled bull-dog, and a
smaller specimen of unknown breed, which was nevertheless a capital
harmony in orange and white. In this order we left the Rue Richelieu
and ascended the Rue d'Etigny, passing under several wreaths and
crowns, with which the streets were decorated. We had previously
noticed these grand preparations on our arrival, and though sensible of
the good feeling that apparently prompted these attentions, we thought
they were somewhat superfluous. But that is (as they were) by the way.
Having soon reached the last of the houses, we gained the Rue du Pauze
Vieux, and turning sharply to the right, ascended to the two
establishments known respectively as the Pauze Vieux and Pauze Nouveau.
And here a paradox--pause, view, and be convinced! The Pauze Vieux is
the Pauze Nouveau and the Pauze Nouveau is the Pauze Vieux. Should any
well-educated citizen of any country under the sun (or daughter) be
disposed to doubt, let him examine the buildings for himself, and he
must agree.
Half-an-hour after starting we reached the cottage known as the "Grange
de la Reine Hortense," the view from which is excessively fine. Looking
down towards the town, the mighty Cabaliros (7655 ft.), forming a
semicircle, stood above on the right; to the left of this semicircle
reared up the Monné (8938 ft.), the highest mountain in the vicinity,
from which other peaks make another similar formation, ending with La
Brune, beside which, but more to the left and immediately over the
town, rises the Peguère, covered with irregularly-heaped crags, and
pines. The town itself looked very neat and compact: the Mamelon Vert
(a small hill to the right) and the chief thorough-fares being easily
distinguished. Far up the Lutour valley, to the extreme left, the Pic
de Labassa, or de la Sèbe (9781 ft.), and the Pyramide de Peyrelance
(8800 ft.), completed the chief points of the scene in that direction;
but far away in the opposite one we could easily see the Argelès valley
and the Gothic church of Lourdes. Behind us, seemingly facing the
Cabaliros, were the Col de Riou (6375 ft.), our would-be destination,
and the Pic de Viscos. Winding up the hillside, and passing banks blue
with the large and small gentian, we entered the pines, which made a
pleasant change. As at the Col d'Aspin, [Footnote: Vide Bigorre, p.
42.] the rising sap filled the air with its refreshing odour, and the
occasional glimpses of blue sky, mountain, and valley, through the
gently waving branches, were very charming.
[Illustration: ASCENT OF COL DE RIOU]
We had not proceeded very far through the trees when we reached a
break, where one of the party felt that at least something had been
gained. There, partly on the track, partly on the loose stones above
it, lay a bank of snow, and so delighted was Miss Blunt at having
attained the (present) snow-line--say about 4600 feet above sea
level--that her feelings were not to be in any way damped or
suppressed, as they burst forth in an
"EXHORTATION TO THE FIRST SNOW."
Emblem of Purity,
Chilly as Charity,
Oh, what a joy your deep whiteness to view!
Something is gain'd at last,
But you are melting fast,
Why does the cruel sun put you to stew?
Tell me, O long-lain snow,
What of the vale below?
What do you think about people and things?
Do you love forest-trees?
Or love you more the breeze?
Tell me what bird you think most sweetly sings?
What? You've no heart at all?
Cannot help where you fall,
Caring not if you swell to a huge size:
Minding not how you rush,
What you break, whom you crush?
Surely such feelings you ought to disguise.
Ah, well! we won't discuss,
Useless to make a fuss;
For, after all, I am glad that we met.
Emblem of Purity,
Chilly as Charity--
But I won't roll in you. No! you're too wet!
The two dogs were amusing in their absurdity. They were perpetually
endeavouring to detach stones from the side of the pathway, so as to
have the pleasure of pursuing them down the steep. At times, when the
hill was thickly strewn with leaves or particularly steep, they
completely disappeared, though violent pulsations among the scattered
branches and the aforesaid leaves told us they were not lost, but only
temporarily buried.
When we had barely mounted another 400 feet, we came upon regular banks
of snow, right over the path. This was quite unexpected, and we had to
decide whether to leave the horses and tramp through the snow, or to
return. We chose the latter--although the Col de Riou stood out
seemingly very practicable of ascent--and, returning on foot, the
horses and guides following, with the dogs here, there, and everywhere,
we reached the "Grange de la Reine Hortense" and proceeded to lunch.
After giving a very good account of the _paté_ sandwiches, and not
forgetting the guides and the dogs, we made our way slowly back,
defeated perhaps, but certainly not discouraged.
Although neither the Lac de Gaube nor the Pont d'Espagne were
attainable, the Cérizey Fall, which is about one third of the distance
to the lake along the same route, was kind enough to put itself at our
disposal. Not wishing to appear ungrateful, we availed ourselves of a
fine afternoon to order round the horses and our two guides, and
started about two o'clock. For some time we followed the road known as
the Rue de la Raillère, which leads to the baths of the same name from
the Place St. Martin; crossing the river by a very unpretentious
bridge, not far from the town. Leaving La Raillère behind, and passing
in turn the drinking establishment of Mauhourat--near which the Gaves
of Lutour and Marcadau form the Gave of Cauterets--and the baths of
Petit St. Sauveur and Le Pré, and gaining as we mounted a good view of
the "Cascade de Lutour" on the left, we entered the Marcadau valley, or
(more properly) gorge. The scenery, similar somewhat to that at the
entrance to the Cauterets gorge from Pierrefitte, is nevertheless
wilder and more severe. The occasional bright fields and frequent
mountain streams, with their merry music, disappear; but the lofty
heights, the gloomy firs, the mighty crags and boulders, and the
snow-peaks beyond, remain. After a great amount of very rough and steep
ascending--the Pic de Gaube (7644 ft.) the while standing conspicuously
before us--we reached the small hut that is intended as a shelter, near
the fall. Dismounting and taking the narrow path to the right over the
stones, immediately above the hut, we obtained a capital view of this
noisy cascade. Other views were obtained by us from above, by
clambering over the stones and boulders at the side of the torrent; but
this is the best of all. From the hut (mentioned above) one hour's good
walking, over anything but a pleasant track, brings one to the Pont
d'Espagne, and it requires another forty minutes to reach the Lac de
Gaube.
[Footnote: The lake is full of excellent salmon trout, and there is a
small inn on its shores, where visitors can stop the night in summer.
The Vignemale, from whose summit the view is wonderfully vast, rears up
above the lake.]
As horses can be taken for the whole distance when the road is free
from snow, our feelings at not being able to proceed can be better
imagined than described! By Mauhourat, whither we presently returned,
the Pont de Benquès crosses the Marcadau, and the track to the left
leads up the valley of the Gavé de Lutour. We did not pursue it very
far, as the workmen were busy repairing it, and it is also very rough
and steep. Several favourite excursions, however, are reached by it,
among which may be mentioned the Cascade de "Pisse-Arros" (forty
minutes from Cauterets), the "Fruitière" (two hours from Cauterets),
the Lac d'Estom, 5847 ft. (three hours from Cauterets), the Ravin
d'Araillé (three hours forty-five minutes), the Lake of Estom Soubiran,
7632 ft. (four hours thirty minutes), the Lake of Estibaoute, 7744 ft.
(four hours forty five minutes), and the Col d'Estom Soubiran (six
hours thirty minutes).
[Illustration: LAC DE GAUBE.]
Instead of again crossing the bridge below La Raillère, we kept to the
left, along what may have been _once_ a Roman road, but which was
_now_ at any rate a track both unpleasant and dangerous.
For some distance, large boulders, soil, and smaller stones overhung
it, and seemed as though the least rain or slightest push would bring
them down. Gradually this unpleasantness ceased, and as the road
widened we passed a few villas and entered the "Parc," which, according
to the natives, is part and parcel of the Esplanade des Oeufs, the
great summer resort in front of the Casino, from the back of which a
pleasant path of very gentle gradient ascends for about a mile to the
"Allées de Cambasque," up the flank of the Peguère; and to the Cabanes
(huts) de Cambasque beyond.
Although there is but little level road for enjoying a ride, we
nevertheless managed to pass a short time very pleasantly on horseback.
Leaving the Esplanade des Oeufs on the left, we took the road passing
between the back of the Hôtel d'Angleterre and a curious chalet, built
with a pagoda beside it, and little bridges in communication. Following
this road, which is known as the Promenade du Mamelon Vert, [Footnote:
The Mamelon Vert is a green hill near the entrance to the town.] and in
turn passing the "Café du Mamelon Vert"--near which the track to the
Cabaliros branches off--and the commencement of the path to Catarabe,
we bore down to the right at the back of the Mamelon, and crossed the
Gave by a rickety wooden bridge--shortly to be superseded by one of
stone--into the Pierrefitte road. Down this, through the fine gorge
within sight of the mines, and then back to the hotel, constituted the
remainder of the ride.
Our stay at Cauterets was not without excitement, though certainly that
excitement was not of a pleasant kind. We soon discovered that the
decorating of the streets was for the benefit of the "Confirmation
Procession," for which the Bishop was coming from Tarbes. The Rue
Richelieu was "up" all along one side for the laying of gas-pipes, and,
by way of diversion, every now and then--usually when we were at
dinner, or wanting to look out of the window--a penny squeaking trumpet
would sound, then a lad would rush about and close all the shutters,
leaving the rooms in darkness and the inmates in suspense, till it
ended in a series of loud reports, accompanied by the distribution of
various specimens of granite in all directions. The authorities stopped
this nice performance when the Bishop was expected, as the mere chance
of "blasting" a Bishop would have been too painful for the Catholic
workmen's feelings, especially as they hoped for a benediction! As soon
as word arrived of the approach of "Monseigneur's" carriage, the curé
and chief dignitaries of the town, accompanied by a brass band, a
detachment of firemen, and a small regiment of women--decked in hoods
of blue or red or white--passed down the muddy street, bearing banners,
and a gilded canopy with white plumes. In a few moments they returned,
the band playing, the banners waving, the abbés and choir singing, and
in the centre of the throng, with two curés in front of him under the
canopy, came the new Bishop of Tarbes, resplendent in violet watered
silk, trimmed with beautiful lace, gloves of the same hue, with ring on
the outside of the right hand, which he perpetually kissed to the
admiring spectators. Miss Blunt, who was for once able to look out of
the window in safety, had a special one all to herself, and of course
she didn't mind any amount of explosions after that!
Then we had other excitements, in the shape of wretched bands of
pilgrims, who, having a spare day, came up from Lourdes to see the
mountains. They invaded our salon, drank beer at eight o'clock in the
morning, and looked on the whole--in spite of their rosettes of black,
red, and yellow--as disreputable a lot of individuals as ever turned
religion into farce. Whether it was quite worth while suffering their
presence for the fun of seeing them mount, when starting for their
excursion, is open to question, but that it was a unique and comic
sight we were all agreed. The hotel garden, filled with guides, horses,
donkeys, and pilgrims; the delicate exhibition of ankles and feet
--such feet; the chairs to help the rotund damsels; the swarm of
natives round one especially fat woman, who got down after all; the
beaming face of the host, and the gloomy looks of a very fat man, just
the size for a small pilgrim tea party; not omitting the priest, whose
flowing robe nearly hid his _better half_ (viz. the donkey), made
a scene worthy of reproduction in the pages of 'Punch.'
Although we strolled about a good deal, we found but little of interest
in the town itself; perhaps the most fascinating spot was the
Patisserie Suisse, in the Rue César, just below the baths of the same
name. The Hôtel de Ville is a fine building, and in summer perhaps, the
market, which stands in a street to the left of it, may present an
animated spectacle; but at this time it had the appearance of a large
monkey cage, with good strong iron railings in front, a few cabbages
and onions, and a small group of ancient and much-wizened native
specimens inside.
We enjoyed our stay, however, in the midst of all the wild scenery
immensely, and think that but few people, if they came during the month
of June, would be prepared to differ from us. There are always some of
course, and before coming we had the pleasure of meeting two of them,
in the shape of a retired _grocer_ (or something of that kind in
the wholesale line) and his wife. They both declared that "Cauterets
was a vile 'ole, with 'igh streets and showy 'ouses, and that a
sensible 'uman being wouldn't stay there ha _h_our;" but it must
be mentioned in their favour, that the day on which they went was
rather damp, and there was only one grocer's shop open. If anyone
should be disposed to take their verdict as more conclusive than ours,
we can simply say, "Believe neither, but go and see for yourself."
There is one other subject worth mentioning, in regard to which we had
a trifling diversion on the morning of our departure. The true breed of
Pyrenean dogs may be seen at Cauterets, and puppies obtained by any
people who wish to have a specimen of this fine race. The great secret
in rearing them is to avoid meat of any kind, and feed them on bread
with a little milk, or very thin soup. It is not the climate of
England, as has so often been alleged, which gives them consumption,
but the change to rich diet from the meagre fare which in the mountains
they always receive.
The prices vary so much, that it is wisest for a stranger to enlist the
services of some trustworthy native to arrange the purchase, rather
than to do the bargaining himself. Pups from six weeks to three months
sell at from ten francs to one hundred, but a really fine specimen of
two and a half months ought to be bought for thirty-five francs. Dogs
of six months and upwards are expensive; as much as five hundred francs
being asked for them in the season.
As Miss Blunt had a great desire to become the possessor of one of
these fluffy creatures, whenever any were seen inquiries were always
directed at once with regard to their parentage and price. Happening to
perceive a woolly tail disappearing behind a workshop in the Rue de la
Raillère a few hours before we had to start, we passed up a short entry
beside the aforementioned workshop, and asked to see the owner of the
dogs. In a few seconds he stood before us, a weather-beaten Frenchman,
who, as well as his clothes and his intellect, had seen better days--a
man about five feet six inches high, with face deeply lined; moustache,
goatee, and hair, all somewhat sparse and grizzled; a blue berret (the
native hat) in his hand; his shirt fastened by a single stud, barely
hiding what had been once a brawny chest; his loose trousers
half-covered by a leathern apron; and his two coats both threadbare,
and decorated with ribands in an equally worn-out state--such, bowing
and smiling as he approached, was the proprietor alike of the dogs and
the workshop. In spite of his poor appearance and idiosyncrasy--almost
approaching to madness--he had a certain dignity of manner which we
could not fail to notice. But he was very trying to deal with. Whenever
the price was the object of our inquiry, he began in the following
strain: "Very good, very good; which does Monsieur like? which does
Ma'm'selle prefer? The finest of course? Ah yes, the finest! Ah, very
good; take your choice, Monsieur; take which you please. The finest
dogs in the world! See! see! Monsieur" (and here he pointed to the
ribands on his breast), "I gained the prize at the Paris
Exhibition!--at the Paris Exhibition!--the exhibition open to all the
world--I, with the dogs I had brought down from the mountains and bred
myself, I gained the prize. Ha! ha! there were two Englishmen, two of
your fellow-countrymen, who thought they would beat me; but no, no,
Monsieur, it was to me you see (pointing to his breast again),
Monsieur, that they gave the prize." At last, however, he named fifty
francs as the price of either, which was very excessive, and when I
suggested ten--which was proportionately low--he proceeded to take off
his apron, roll up his coat-sleeves, and then, looking at me fiercely,
said, "So, Monsieur, you take me for a ten-franc man, do you? You think
to mock me, do you? I, who gained the prize at the Paris Exhibition,
the exhibition open to all the world, for the finest dogs, you think I
will sell my puppies at ten francs, Monsieur? No, Monsieur. I will not
sell you one for ten francs, and I do not wish to have anything more to
do with you." And then he, who five minutes before had been shaking my
hand with delight because I knew the owner of the parent dog (of his
puppies), with a lofty wave of the hand motioned me to depart. Before
doing so I soothed his offended dignity by a mellifluous explanation,
and he once more, but somewhat loftily, offered me his hand as I bade
him farewell. So, in spite of the pleasant diversion, Miss Blunt did
not get her dog!