Again I managed to secure a carriage to myself, but this time it proved a very badly coupled one which jolted considerably.  Lourdes was reached in a wretched drizzle, and the benefit conferred on passengers by having the station quite free from any covering whatever, was apparent to all.  A sudden activity on the part of the “cochers” to entrap me to their respective (but by no means necessarily respectable) hotels, as I emerged from the station—­ which proved useless—­and I was jolting onward to the Hotel des Pyrenees.  When arrived, inspected rooms, ordered fires and dinner, and whiled away an hour till it was time to repair again to the station, to meet Mrs. and Miss Blunt and Mr. Sydney, “Red tape"-ism dominant there, as it is everywhere in France.  In fact, “red tape” is the French official’s refuge.  Whenever a system is weak or underhand, they seek protection behind a maze of stupidity and fuss.  I wanted to see the station-master, to obtain permission to perambulate the platform till the arrival of the train.  No porter would bestir himself to find this great official, but whichever way I turned one was always ready with his “Ou allez-vous, Monsieur?” to which the only sensible reply would have been “Pas au ——­, comme vous,” but silence and an utter indifference were better still, and armed with these I ran the gauntlet of the pests, and finding the “Chef de Gare” in his “bureau,” at once received the desired permission.  There was not much time for perambulation, as the train soon steamed in, though without Mr. Sydney, who was detained for a day or two longer, and once more, but now a triangular party, we jolted back to the hotel.  The rest of the evening was passed with dinner, and an endeavour to get warm; the rain and wind still enjoying themselves without.

[Illustration]

However, with the morn all these miseries vanished, and the sun shone from a blue sky flecked with a few films of snow.  Lourdes looked very charming under such auspices, and Miss Blunt availed herself of the balmy air of the morning to wander round the stables and garden with a speckled pointer and a Pyrenean puppy, between which and the mountains her attention was divided, though the last named had certainly the least of it.

Then out we sallied to see the sights, which are more of quality than quantity.  Turning to the right from the hotel door, through the Place de Marcadal, where the fountain was playing in delightful imitation of the previous night’s rain, we gained the commencement of the Rue de la Grotte (which bears sharply to the left by the Hotel de Paris), and followed its muddy ways with more or less danger owing to absence of footpath, and presence of numerous carriages.  However, having passed the Hotel d’Angleterre and the end of Rue du Fort (leading to the ancient castle), footpaths came into view, but the joy of the discovery was much minimized at the sight of the shops and shopkeepers, as the latter gave us no peace.