Each "pipe is put out," and my "stops" are no more,
I belong to a "period" remote;
And as to the tongues that wagged freely of yore,
They have long disappeared down the throat.
My pedals are broken or gone quite awry,
My "keys"—you may "note"—are now dust;
No longer a "swell"—not as faint as a sigh—
While my bellows, good people, are "bust."
I am twisted and worn, in a ruinous state,
But prythee, good people, don't sneer!
My joys and my sorrows I've tried to relate,
And in judging me don't be severe!!!
Leaving the organ, and passing behind the "high altar," we beheld the tomb of the redoubtable saint, who is supposed to have been shut up there at the end of the 10th century, though the gilt ornament (?) above is some four centuries younger. The set of old paintings to the right and left represent scenes in the good man's life, who, if he had only changed the i in his name to o—and the king would have agreed readily—by the perpetual allusion to Savon, would perhaps have done much for the natives generally. The robing-room, wherein the head of the revered man is kept in a casket, and the "Salle du Chapitre," with quaint carvings of the 12th century, beyond, are other places of interest.
The "Château de Miramont," which adjoins, is now used as a convent (or college), and visitors are not permitted to inspect it. We bought a lithographed print of the church and its environs for half a franc, from our round-backed guide, besides depositing a "douceur" in his horny palm, and consequently parted with him on the best of terms. The road for some distance being rather steep, we preferred to walk and let the carriage follow, but when nearing the junction with the Pierrefitte road, we mounted again and bowled along at a smart pace over the well-known bridge to the hotel.
There was nothing striking about our hotel life, although we found it pleasant, being a "parti carré." We were generally the sole partakers of the table-d'hôte, at which the food was excellent, the jugged chamois (izard) being especially good. Light, however, was at a premium. It may have been all out of compliment, to bear testimony to our being "shining lights" ourselves; still, for all that, we should have been glad to forego the politeness, and receive, instead, a reinforcement of lamps.
Argelès itself is a peculiar old place; though devoid of much interest, except on market-days. The curious houses and towers, the street watercourses (as at Bagnères de Bigorre), the church, and the strange chapel-like building now used as a diocesan college, are all that is noteworthy even, excepting the "State schools," built three years ago.
On a Tuesday, when the market is in full swing, the square in front of the post-office looks bright and cheerful, and vegetables flourish. We took a very pleasant walk after passing through the stalls, and down past the Hôtel de France. The route we followed leads to the right, close by the new State schools, among some poor cottages, where it turns sharply in the opposite direction, and runs down beside some fine old chestnut trees to the river. Continuing, the track leads up a fine glen, with views of the snow- peaks towards Eaux Bonnes, which well repaid our walk.
Returning again by the town, we wandered about through the narrow streets, taking a farewell survey before leaving for Cauterets, whither we were next intent.
There is another episode connected with Argelès, that will live in our memories, and it is one that future travellers, methinks, may have reason to appreciate, if not to endorse.