We started for Eaux Chaudes in the cool of the afternoon, anticipating a pleasant drive, and were very far from being disappointed. After retraversing the road to the branching point above Laruns—near which the fields and banks were rich in gentians, violets, scabii, linariae, and columbines—we seemed suddenly to plunge into the Gorge de Hourat. There can be little doubt that there is no truer specimen of a gorge in the Pyrenees than this. The piled-up crags overgrown with heather, and the splendid pastures above on the hill-tops, seen in the Cauterets Gorge, were missing; so, too, the varied tints and softer landscape bits of the St. Sauveur defile were absent; but here the masses of rock rose straight up on either side, at times seemingly ambitious to hide their summits in the clouds; while the roar of the torrent issuing from the Hourat (or Trou, i.e. hole) above which the road passes, only served to heighten the grand effect of the scene.
Just after the narrowest part is passed, a small chapel may be noticed high above the river on the right. It marks the scene of a frightful accident. The old road, which was in use till 1849, passed by the spot, and a heavily-laden diligence full of passengers overturned—through the horses taking fright, it is said—and the whole complement were dashed over the rocks into the torrent below. The chapel has since been erected, but though the old road still exists, and, in fact, joins the new one at the Pont Crabé—which beautiful place is admirably depicted in the sketch—there is little danger of such an accident occurring again.
A little further on—viz. about two miles from Eaux Chaudes—we noticed below us as charming a subject as any painter could wish for. A small plot of velvet-like green-sward beside the rushing river; some trees, leafy almost to extravagance, gracefully arched above; a few sheep descending a narrow track on the hillside; and above all, the immense rocky heights, around the base of which beeches and other trees luxuriantly grew, and many beautiful flowers bloomed; and, thus garlanded at their base, their stern and massive summits looked grander still, and completed such a picture of majestic beauty as no lover of nature could fail to enthusiastically admire.
One mile further there is another fine sight, though not of the comprehensive beauty of that just mentioned. This one doubtless is not worth seeing in mid-summer, when the sun has dried up the mountain streams, but when we passed that way we could see from the very summit of the hill—above which the pointed Pic de Laruns reared its crest—a mass of foam issuing from between two rocks, no puny meandering streamlet, but a strong torrent, which, as it dashed from rock to rock, gathered strength and velocity till it rushed amid a cloud of spray into the river below.
[Illustration: CRABÉ BRIDGE, IN THE EAUX CHAUDES GORGE.]
We saw one or two gentlemen—evidently early visitors like ourselves—anxiously whipping the river for fish, but they caught nothing; in fact, they told us afterwards that it was done with hardly any hopes of catching, since the "professional"—save the name—element came out with rods and nets, so that if the rods didn't answer they could net the pools instead. It seemed to us a remarkably good thing that "professionals" can't do the same in England!
There is another lovely scene not half a mile away from the town, where a path leads from the road to the riverside. There is a plot of green-sward here, and a grove of trees; and the river passes under a bridge, that vibrates with the force of the torrent surging against its rocky base. The path over the bridge leads through the leafy glades on the heights that overlook the river, and the town may be regained by crossing another bridge higher up.
Soon after, we were entering Eaux Chaudes (271/2 miles), and having passed the Hôtel de France on the left, and the gardens and bathing establishment on the right, we drove up to the Hôtel Baudot and were courteously received by Madame.
It appeared that we had arrived a day too late, as the marriage of Madame's niece with the hotel chef had been celebrated the day before, and wonderful festivities had taken place in their honour; while the guests in the hotel (fortunately not more than eight in number) had been regaled with champagne and many choice dishes.
While waiting for dinner we strolled about on the terrace, opening out of the dining-room and overlooking the river. It did not need the boxes of bright flowers that lined the terrace sides to entice us there, but they certainly added to the delightful picture of river and trees; and as one face reminds us of another, so this scene carried our memory back to another, but a more lovely one even, because the beauty of the trees was heightened by large bushes of azaleas—bright with various-coloured blooms—growing between. But beauty and comfort do not always go together, and for calm enjoyment this Pyrenean scene had the preference; for the other was in the heart of Japan, at the tiny village of Sakurazawa, and we gazed on the picture through the open shoji, [Footnote: Sliding screens, being frames of wood pasted over with paper, acting as doors and windows.] lying on the neat but hard—very hard—mats, that were our tables, chairs, and beds in one; which our host's assurance, that the Mikado himself had slept upon them the year previous, didn't make any softer. The announcement of dinner cut short further musings, and we took our places at the table, profusely adorned with evidences of the previous day's ceremony.