CHAPTER IX.

FROM LUZ AND ST. SAUVEUR TO BAGNERES DE LUCHON.

A smiling valley—­Lourdes again—­The chapel in the crypt—­St. Peter’s statue—­Burnished toes—­Solemn quietude—­Preparing for the great pilgrimage—­“Ornamented” crosses—­Mr. Sydney’s new vocation, “guide, philosopher, and friend”—­Bigorre again—­An open-air concert —­Harmonious echoes—­Paying through the nose—­The fete at Payole—­Sport a la francaise—­Costumes—­The view from the Col d’Aspin—­ Arreau—­Quaint houses—­La Chapelle de St. Exupere—­A whining “gardien”—­Eglise de Notre Dame—­The River Neste—­Hotel de France—­Borderes—­Avajan—­Louderville—­Oxslips and cowslips—­Wild narcissus—­Col de Peyresourde—­The view—­Garin—­Cazaux—­St. Aventin—­Lovely avenues—­Our destination.

With a morning as lovely as the day of our arrival had been dreary, we left at 9.15 for Bagneres de Bigorre, the first part of our long drive.  The valley, more fully clothed than it was a week ago, looked so fresh in the warm sunlight, with the river winding along, that we felt very loath to leave.  The gorge below, all the way to Pierrefitte, added its share of beauty, and the graceful white heath growing up its sides loaded the air with a sweet scent.  The wide expanse of the Argeles valley, with the busy farmers ploughing, sowing, or cutting the heavy clover crop; the lazy oxen ever patiently plodding beneath their heavy burdens; the Chateau de Beaucens—­where the orchids grow—­perched up on the hillside; the surrounding peaks throwing off their snowy garb; and the beautiful young leaves and tints, everywhere mingling with the brightness of the flowers blooming on the slopes or amid the waving grasses, made a scene as picturesque as it was charming.

Compared with the scenery so far, the remainder of the drive to Lourdes, which we reached in three hours from the time of starting, though full of many pleasant corners in which the river heightened the effect, was nevertheless not so fine; but Lourdes itself looked more attractive than on our former visit.  After lunch, while the horses were resting, we drove in a local milord [Footnote:  A kind of victoria.] to the church, as we had omitted before to visit the chapel built in the crypt underneath.  In the entrance is the fine bronze statue of St Peter clasping the key, similar to the one in Rome both in size and in the highly-burnished appearance of the toes of the right foot, for which latter the affectionate pilgrims are answerable.  On either side of the statue a corridor lined with marble tablets—­presented by “grateful” individuals in acknowledgment of cures and cleansings—­and dotted with confessional boxes, leads down to the chapel.  The repulsive gaudiness of the tinsel display in the church above it is almost absent here, and though the same exaltation of the Virgin over our Saviour is manifest, yet otherwise this chapel, with its vaulted roof and its quietude, seems far more fitted for meditation and prayer.