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.
[Illustration: _The Pyrenees were in sight_ _Page 112_
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]
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.
[Illustration: _Ice peaks of the Pyrenees_
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood]
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.