Saturday is the great market-day of the week, and not only then is the "Place de Strasbourg," at the end of the "Rue du Centre," well crowded, but even—as happens on no other day—the Place Lafayette, in front of the hotel, and the top of the Coustous as well. The first-named is the fruit, flower, and vegetable market; the second, the grain and potato; and the third, the iron and old shoe market. The amount and variety of old iron and cast-off shoes exposed for sale is astonishing. And if the vendors were given to crying their wares they might indulge in something like the following—of course translated:—
"Now who's for an 'upper,' a 'heel,' or a 'sole'?
This way for some fine rusty chain!
The sum of ten halfpence will purchase the whole,
And surely you cannot complain!
"Just glance at this slipper, whose fellow is lost;
Here's a boot that was only worn thrice;
A hammer, your honour, at half what it cost;
I'm sure that's a reasonable price."
The curious characters loafing, begging, buying and selling, quite defy description, though the resemblance of many to the ape tribe was conspicuous. One ancient individual, presiding over an "umbrella hospital," presented an interesting spectacle surrounded by adult shoe-blacks whose trade did not appear to be too lucrative.
Sunday is usually a very quiet day out of the season, but on our first Sunday morning the Place de Strasbourg was the scene of a real cat-fight. The combatants quite tabooed spitting and scratching, and went to work with their teeth. After a few squeaks and a great deal of rolling in the dust, a magnanimous dog appeared on the scene, and after separating them, pursued the victor down the street. The rest of the day, as usual, passed peacefully, and the pleasant services in the pretty little English Church were much enjoyed. It is situated near Dussert and Labal's marble works, just off the Rue des Pyrenees, leading to Campan, about a hundred yards beyond the Coustous, and is reached by crossing a small wooden bridge.
Monday broke very fine, and as the market people had notified that the Col d'Aspin was now open, we made up a party of ten, just filling two landaus, for this fifteen-mile drive. We did not start till eleven, and by that time the clouds had commenced to show themselves, but hoping for better things, we went ahead. Following the Campan road, we soon left Gerde and the Palomières above it, in the distance, and in a few moments the village of Asté as well. A little further on we met a barouche, lolling back in which sat a priest. His hands were clasped o'er his breast, his spectacled eyes were fixed upwards, and judging by the expression of his mouth and the movement of his lips, he was endeavouring to put some pleasant, self-contented thoughts into words. We took the liberty of guessing what he was saying, and set it down as
"THE ABBÉ'S SONG."
Oh! I am an Abbé, an Abbé am I,
And I'm fond of my dinner and wine.
Some say I'm a sinner, but that I deny,
And I never am heard to repine.
'Tis said what a pity I can't have a wife,
But I'm saved from the chance of all naggings and strife,
While in my barouche I can ride where I will,
Feeling life not half bad, though the world may be ill.
I always wear glasses, but that's to look sage,
And not 'cause my eyesight is dim,
For when sweet maids I view of a loveable age,
I contrive to look over the rim.
And when I'm alone with the glass at my lips,
I am ready to swear, as I pause 'twixt the sips,
That as long as the world does not hamper my will,
I think I can manage to live in it still.
A short distance before reaching Baudéan a road strikes to the right up the Vallon de Serris, and a short distance beyond, another, in the same direction, strikes up the Vallée de Lesponne, en route for the Lac Bleu (6457 ft.) and the Montaigu (7681 ft.). When Baudéan and its quaint old church were left in our rear, and we were nearing Campan, we witnessed a fierce struggle between a young bull-calf and a native. The calf objected very strongly to the landaus, and wished to betake itself to the adjacent country to avoid them. To this the native very naturally objected in turn, and a struggle was the result, in which the calf was worsted and reduced to order.