Then we had other excitements, in the shape of wretched bands of pilgrims, who, having a spare day, came up from Lourdes to see the mountains.  They invaded our salon, drank beer at eight o’clock in the morning, and looked on the whole—­in spite of their rosettes of black, red, and yellow—­as disreputable a lot of individuals as ever turned religion into farce.  Whether it was quite worth while suffering their presence for the fun of seeing them mount, when starting for their excursion, is open to question, but that it was a unique and comic sight we were all agreed.  The hotel garden, filled with guides, horses, donkeys, and pilgrims; the delicate exhibition of ankles and feet —­such feet; the chairs to help the rotund damsels; the swarm of natives round one especially fat woman, who got down after all; the beaming face of the host, and the gloomy looks of a very fat man, just the size for a small pilgrim tea party; not omitting the priest, whose flowing robe nearly hid his better half (viz. the donkey), made a scene worthy of reproduction in the pages of ‘Punch.’

Although we strolled about a good deal, we found but little of interest in the town itself; perhaps the most fascinating spot was the Patisserie Suisse, in the Rue Cesar, just below the baths of the same name.  The Hotel de Ville is a fine building, and in summer perhaps, the market, which stands in a street to the left of it, may present an animated spectacle; but at this time it had the appearance of a large monkey cage, with good strong iron railings in front, a few cabbages and onions, and a small group of ancient and much-wizened native specimens inside.

We enjoyed our stay, however, in the midst of all the wild scenery immensely, and think that but few people, if they came during the month of June, would be prepared to differ from us.  There are always some of course, and before coming we had the pleasure of meeting two of them, in the shape of a retired grocer (or something of that kind in the wholesale line) and his wife.  They both declared that “Cauterets was a vile ’ole, with ’igh streets and showy ’ouses, and that a sensible ’uman being wouldn’t stay there ha hour;” but it must be mentioned in their favour, that the day on which they went was rather damp, and there was only one grocer’s shop open.  If anyone should be disposed to take their verdict as more conclusive than ours, we can simply say, “Believe neither, but go and see for yourself.”

There is one other subject worth mentioning, in regard to which we had a trifling diversion on the morning of our departure.  The true breed of Pyrenean dogs may be seen at Cauterets, and puppies obtained by any people who wish to have a specimen of this fine race.  The great secret in rearing them is to avoid meat of any kind, and feed them on bread with a little milk, or very thin soup.  It is not the climate of England, as has so often been alleged, which gives them consumption, but the change to rich diet from the meagre fare which in the mountains they always receive.