It was a relief to me, when this evening, we ran into Toulouse; its many buildings of brick lying along the bank of the broad and peaceful Garonne, looking curiously rose-hued in the level rays of the declining sun.
But poor car! when I set to work at cleaning it after its ill-treatment it seemed to reproach me for disloyalty. Its very lamps were like mournful, misunderstood eyes. And this is only the first day of many. How long, O friend, how long? I don't quite see what is to become of your unfortunate
Jack Winston.
Narbonne, December 17.
I didn't post the beginning of this letter. I felt I should want to add something.
Another day has passed-a day of alarms and excursions. Payne has made an ass of himself, and I have scored off him, winning my way back to the front seat of the car, and relegating him to the tonneau with Aunt Mary. But I have not shaken him off. He's still in our pocket, and to all appearance means to stick there. The situation, therefore, remains essentially what it was yesterday.
But for the incident of which I will tell you, this might have been one of the most delightful bits of the whole tour. Even though at first I was stuffed into the tonneau, I couldn't help finding pleasure in the pictures through which we flashed in the earlier part of the day.
There was a good deal of pavé to traverse before we were clear of Toulouse, and then we came into a fine, open world, chasing and passing many peasants' carts. These always occupy the middle of the road, and as their drivers are often asleep, there is much blowing of the horn and shouting before they pull over to their right side. Presently we found out the meaning of this stream of carts, for we ran into a large village with turkeys and geese all over the road, like carpet bedding, tied by the legs and cackling loudly. There were crowds of peasants-old and young; the old women with neat, black silk head-dresses framing their brown, wrinkled faces; and through, the midst of this animated scene we had to drive at a foot-pace, tootling on the horn. On the other side of the long village we found ourselves on a wide, level road, that for smoothness would shame a billiard-table, crossed the green Canal du Midi, and ran for a while by its side, passing a queer obelisk erected to Riquet, its constructor.
Suddenly, on mounting a hill, an enormous view spread out before us. The distant Pyrenees showed their serrated line far away to the right, their snowy tops spectral over an intervening range of hills; to the left stretched a vast, undulating tract of country, with towns and church spires distinctly outlined in the clear, crisp air-for it was a day of glorious lights. Beyond all was a range of vague, blue hills which I knew to be the Cevennes, sacred to the memory of Robert Louis Stevenson.