But like other things, the “genus asininus” is very variable, almost as much so as the barometer, and those “on hire” for riding purposes were quite as obstinate as their relations in other countries; at least so the ladies declared who tried them, and they ought to know.  Their bitter experience was gained in a trip up the Monne, the highest mountain in the immediate vicinity, being 2308 feet above Bigorre, or 4128 above the sea.  Our party was seven in all, supplemented by a broken-winded and coughing horse (called Towser; French, Tousseux), two very obstinate donkeys, and a particularly polite donkey boy.  Add to these, three luncheon-baskets and various sticks, umbrellas, and parasols, and the cavalcade is complete.  We left the hotel and passed up the Coustous in rather mixed order, which improved as we turned into the Rue d’Alsace, and leaving the Great Bathing Establishment [Footnote:  Grand Etablissement de Thermes.] and French Protestant Church on the right, and the Baths of Sante and Grand Pre on the left, entered the “Salut” avenue, which in due time brought us to the baths of the same name.  The ascent, which by the road is most circuitous and easy, commences from thence.  But though easy, the donkeys did not attempt to conceal their dislike for the work at a very early stage, and when the blasting in the quarries was hushed, “the voice of the charmer” (i.e. donkey boy) might have been heard, painfully resembling the sounds made by the traveller with his head over the vessel’s side, urging them on, “Ai-ue—­Ai-ue.”  As we rounded the last of the minor peaks, “the keen demands of appetite” were not to be resisted; so on a nice green plateau, with the object of our desires in full view, we discussed the luncheon.  Shawls were spread, plates handed round, bottles gurglingly uncorked, and chicken and “pate de foie gras” distributed until everyone was steadily at work.  The mountain air seemed to affect the “vin ordinaire”; everyone averred it was as good as “Margaux,” while the chicken was voted delicious, and the pate superb.

This important business over, a start was again made, and though the donkeys were still obstinate, we managed to make progress.  Daffodils were growing in profusion as we neared the summit, making the hill crest seem crowned with gold.  At last, after one or two nasty narrow bits of path, barely affording sufficient footing for the animals, we gained the top, anxious to enjoy the view.  Unhappily, the tips of the highest peaks were hidden in the clouds, but the general view was excellent, so we endeavoured to be content.  With our backs to Bigorre, we had the Pic du Midi (9440 ft.) and the Montaigu (7681 ft.) right before us, with the small Val de Serris and the finer Val de Lesponne beneath.  More to the left, the continuation of the Campan Valley leading to Luchon, in which, as far as Ste. Marie, the route is visible.  On the extreme left lay the four villages of Gerde, Aste, Baudean and Campan, with the Pene de l’Heris