opposition, for it curls and writhes and overcomes the difficulties only by the most desperate exertions; and at one spot, in its effort to compass a barrier of rock, it actually recoils within half-a-dozen yards of its former path.”  Throughout, however, the same easy, imperturbable gradient is preserved.  The old road was greatly rougher and steeper; four horses and three pairs of oxen, it is said, were once required to drag up each carriage.

Finally the valley widens slightly, and rather suddenly opens out upon an incline.  At its farther end is a white-crested mountain, and below nestles the mountain resort of Cauterets, six miles in from Pierrefitte.

* * * * *

It is seven o’clock, as our wheels strike the stones of the pavement.  We drive into the main street, pass through a neat, irregular little plaza, and, some distance beyond, turn to the right from a larger square, toward the Hotel Continental.  The town is waiting for the diligence, and shopkeepers are at their doors, guides and touters and loungers and visitors in the streets, all expectant for the daily gust of arrival.  The lamps are just twinkling out, against the dusk, and the general impression,—­often a long determinant of like or dislike,—­is of an animated and welcoming scene.  The hotel proves to be nearly on the scale of the Gassion, and other equally pretentious ones have been passed in approaching it.  We drive under the high entrance-way and into its great court, with the flourishes dear to the drivers’ hearts; and the long and varying tableau of the day’s ride is over.

CHAPTER XII.

MIRRORS AND MOUNTAINS.

  “All along the valley, stream that flashest white,
  Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night.”

—­TENNYSON’S Cauterets.

Cauterets confirms its first good impressions.  The next day proves cloudy and foggy, and we spend it lazily, re-reading and answering letters, or wandering about the town, absorbing its streets and shops.  The season is fairly afloat, and all sail is set.  At the angle of two thoroughfares, a stretch of ground has been brushed together for a park or promenade, and this, sprinkled with low, flat-topped trees and a band-stand, naturally attracts us first.  Booths and cafes and nicknack stalls reach around its sides, and across from us stands a fine official-looking structure of marble, which we learn is the Thermal Establishment.  We stroll toward this, through the groups of promenaders, run the gauntlet of the booths, inspecting hopelessly their catchpenny wares and games, and find ourselves before it.  It is well placed, and architecturally effective.  To judge from the goodly patronage, it is pathologically effective as well.  Within, the large, tiled hall conducts right and left to wings containing rows of white-tiled bath-apartments and two full-sized swimming-rooms.