DEPARTURES FOR THE NORTH--CRAZY CHICKENS--GRAND
ROADS--DAX--RIDES THROUGH THE FORESTS--FRENCH SCENERY AND
PEOPLE--MARMANDE--"AUTOMOBILE CLUB OF FRANCE" AND ITS WORK
To-day we start for the heart of France. It is misty as we leave the
hotel at Biarritz, but mist generally portends a fine day later on.
Our road to Bayonne passes along by the sea and is a delightful
highway, running much of the time through fragrant pine trees. There
are two routes between Biarritz and Bayonne, but this is much to be
preferred to that by which we entered the former town. It is that to
the right after passing the walls of Bayonne. In the other, to the
left, one is bothered by trams and much traffic. The route by the sea
must have been especially constructed for autos, and it is a splendid
piece of work. Jean is evidently of the same opinion and much pleased,
for he grunts, and the machine flies. Yesterday in one of his wild
moments he actually took off the tail feathers of a chicken, with no
further injury, so far as we could determine, to her ladyship, who
flew to a neighbouring wall, where, missing the accustomed balance of
said tail, she ignominiously tumbled into the dung heap on the other
side. As we drew away, her lord and master, certainly a Bourbon, stood
gazing down upon her very much as the grand Louis must have glared at
de Montespan as he turned her out of Court.
Jean absolutely declines to pause or change his course for chickens,
but he will do so for dogs. As for cats, the machine has yet to be
invented that can take a tabby unawares, much less catch one; on the
whole, they can beat an auto on a straight course, and yesterday a
hobbled pony gave us a lively brush for an instant and at a fine gait
too. Occasionally one meets a dog whose spirits are so broken that he
cowers behind any available object moaning in fright, but it is not so
generally, and the young steers, of which there are many, never give
way. As for geese, they simply retire to a point of safety and scoff at
us.
The mist shifts about us all the way to Bayonne, and when we have
passed that city, seems to have settled into rain, but we are no sooner
made snug by the cover and lap-robes than the clouds break and the sun
shines warmly and pleasantly. The same superb condition of the highway
noted between Biarritz and Bayonne continues here.
Broad and solid as a floor, it stretches away before us for miles on
miles in a perfectly straight line and between Bayonne and Dax I do not
think there are a dozen curves. Most of the way is through a thick pine
woods where the trees are being tapped for the pitch and the air is
heavy with the balsam.
The bed of the road is elevated some four feet above the forest, and as
I gaze off on either side, I am reminded of Florida; even the same kind
of trees and climbing vines are all around us.
I have heard many who have not travelled in automobiles in France
express their fears that these long stretches of straight roadways
would prove monotonous, but such is far from the case, and it cannot
be, I think, with the delicious rushing motion one's car attains upon
them. The run to Dax is rapidly covered and we descend at the Hôtel
de la Paix for luncheon, though it is rather early. It is only in the
small towns that one finds the pleasant little inns. This one at Dax is
dark and dirty and I am greeted by a slovenly old woman who conducts
me into an unattractive _salle à manger_, where the food is none too
good. From Dax our route lies towards Mont-de-Marsan, and nearly the
whole way is through the forest of pine. Accidents will happen, even
to autos, and while we are speeding up a hill, Jean discovers by some
signs that there is trouble with our left rear wheel, where we have
never had any before, and on examination the ruin is very apparent.
We have picked up a crooked nail which has punctured both envelopes
and pneumatic. So another pneumatic must be put in place. It gives me
an opportunity for a stroll in the pine forests, where I find that
every tree has been blazed and to each is affixed a small concave cup;
most of these are nearly full of the thick white sap. It is evident
that many of these forests have been planted, as the trees stand in
regular rows. During most of the day, our route lies through these
forests, and is, in consequence, rather monotonous, as we cannot
see beyond them, but as we pass Casteljaloux the scene changes to
one of those characteristic French prospects, so familiar to most
of us; a far-reaching, smiling green valley traversed by the many
high-roads along which march the stately rows of Lombardy poplars, a
church-crowned town here, and there a smiling river which is crossed
by a graceful viaduct in light colored stone, over which a train is
speeding; a sense of peace and prosperity over all, and above that a
fair blue sky. That is France. One would fancy in contemplating such a
picture, that trouble and sorrow never came to such a spot, and yet no
land on earth has seen more of horror and bloodshed than this fair land
of France. The French are a queer people, and it would take but little
to erect the guillotine in any or all of these towns where the people
are dancing now so merrily. It was but the other day in Paris that the
police were forced to disperse a mob found dancing and singing around
a guillotine (from some chamber of horrors), in the Temple Square. How
long would it have been before the sound of the Carmagnole would have
drawn the bloodhounds from the slums of the city, transforming that
mob from monkeys who mocked to tigers which tore. The sight of that
instrument to these people is as the smell of blood to a wild beast.
My Japanese boy "Yama" excites the keenest kind of interest and
curiosity, and to-day as we were forced to stop a moment in
Casteljaloux where a fair was being held, I really felt apprehensive
for a moment,--not that they would do anything to him, but as to
how long his blank Oriental face could retain its utter lack of
expression before changing to one of sudden fury, as I knew the faces
of these Japs could do. The people pressed around the automobile and
almost fingered him, yet he never for an instant lost his Buddha-like
expression, or lack of expression. Let out amongst that crowd he could
floor any number, for he is a master in _jiu-jitsu_.
Last winter in Washington an English valet boasted to him that he could
handle him with ease.
"Let's try," said the Jap, and, no sooner attempted than the stalwart
Englishman lay sprawling on the far side of the room.
Again, when a burly priest weighing certainly two hundred and fifty
pounds insisted upon calling for my cook at the main door of the house,
upon my expressing my distaste thereat, the Jap, who weighs I should
say one hundred and ten pounds, promptly offered to "put him out" if
he came again, and he could probably have done so with great ease, but
I declined to allow a priest of the Church to be treated in such a
summary manner.
Our stopping place to-night is Marmande, an uninteresting town, with a
dirty hotel. There is absolutely nothing to see or to do save to watch
the inhabitants and their manners and customs.
How placidly the lives of these people seem to flow in these provincial
towns. The café of this hotel--I suppose the Waldorf of the place--is
the rendezvous of the wits and beaux of society hereabouts. It is a
large room with sanded floor upon which are marble-topped tables ranged
against the leather divans which line the walls. Madame presides
in stately form over the whole and welcomes her _habitués_. The old
gentleman in shiny black, the young gentleman in queer cut habiliments,
the middle-aged gentleman with the pointed beard, all come and engage
in a mild game of cards until the dinner hour. Do they dine here? Bless
your soul, no; or, if so, in the outer room. "Madame" conducts me
through to an inner sanctum where only the elect may break their fast,
and here it is better than I had expected, judging from the hotel. This
is certainly a spot in France to which not a dozen foreigners come in a
year. There is no reason for their doing so unless the night overtakes
them. We could have gone farther, but it was evident that Jean was
tired. The strain upon a chauffeur must tell in time as it does upon
the driver of an express engine. So we stopped over and are very well
off. The waiter is surprised that here, where it is made, I let the
wine alone.
Jean comes around as usual after his dinner and we arrange our route
for the next day. It is an intense satisfaction to travel in this
country. The Automobile Club of France has mapped out all the Republic
and every cross-road, every hill, or dangerous curve has its iron or
stone sign post with names and distances or warning. These together
with the excellent charts published by A. Taride, 18 Boulevard Saint
Denis, Paris, under the directions of the "Union vélocipédique de
France" render it almost impossible to go astray, or to get into
trouble, yet in the rush of our auto we have several times gone a few
kilos wrong, having passed the posts so quickly that we could not read
the names, but that matters not with these cars which move so quickly
or in France where it is a pleasure to get lost.