What I think we enjoyed most in Le Puy was its lacemakers. At every turn, in every little winding street, one saw them—singly and in groups; they were at the front of every door. They were of all ages, but mainly, I think, they were old women. Many of them wore the Auvergne costume—quaint hats or caps, and little shawls, and wooden shoes. Lacemaking is the industry of the Haute-Loire district, and is said to employ ninety thousand women. I think that is an underestimate. It seemed to me we saw as many as that ourselves in front of those mediæval doorways of Le Puy.
Chapter XIII
THE CENTER OF FRANCE
It is grand driving from Le Puy northward toward Clermont-Ferrand and Vichy. It is about the geographical center of France, an unspoiled, prosperous-looking land. Many varieties of country are there—plain, fertile field, rich upland slopes. All the way it is picture country—such country as we have seen in the pictures and seldom believed in before. Cultivated areas in great squares and strips, fields of flowers—red, blue, white—the French colors; low solid-looking hills, with little cities halfway to the summit, and always, or nearly always, a castle or two in their midst; winding, shining rivers with gray-stone bridges over them, the bright water appearing and reappearing at every high turn.
Our road made no special attempt to reach the towns. We viewed them from a distance, and there were narrower roads that turned in their direction, but our great national highway—it was No. 9 now—was not intended for their special accommodation. When it did reach a town it was likely to be a military center, with enormous barracks—new, many of them—like those at Issoire, a queer old place where we spent the night and where I had a real adventure.
It was my custom to carry under the back seat a bottle of Scotch whisky in event of severe illness, or in case of acute motor trouble. For reasons I do not at the moment recall—perhaps the cork had leaked—our supply seemed low at Issoire, and I decided to see what I could find. I had little hope, for in France even the word "whisky" is seldom recognized. Still, I would make diligent inquiry, our case being pretty desperate. There was not enough in the bottle to last till morning— I mean, of course, in case anything serious should happen.
I had the usual experience at the cafés. The attendants repeated the word "whisky" vaguely, and in various ways, and offered me all sorts of gayly tinted liquids which I did not think would cure anything I was likely to have. I tried a drug store, where a gentle pharmacist listened awhile to my French, then dug out from the back of a lower drawer a circular on Esperanto. Imagine!
I was about ready to give it up when I happened to notice a low, dim shop the shelves of which seemed filled with fancy bottles. The place had an ancient, mellow look, but I could see at a glance that its liquids were too richly colored for my taste—needs, I mean. I could try, however.
The little gray man who waited on me pronounced the word in several ways and scratched his head.