Yonder diverging roads both led to fairy land and worlds of marvel—the one to Florac, so majestically placed under the colossal shadow of the Causse Méjean and above the lovely valley of the Jonte; the other across the steppe of Sauveterre and by the strange dwellings of the Caussenards to the picturesque little town of St. Éminie, the rapids of the Tarn, and the dolomite city.
There was, however, the consolatory hope of seeing all the following year. Who could tell? Perhaps that very day twelve months later I might delight the children with my bonbon box, and a second time make tea on their breezy playground. At any rate, I entertained the project, and
'Should life be dull and spirits low,
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow.'
We are overtaken by two pedestrians only on our way home—ill-looking fellows enough, strangers in these parts, our driver assured us. 'No Caussenards, they,' he said. 'The Caussenard is harmless enough, only a trifle slow.'
We get magnificent views of Mende and the Valley of the Lot—some slight recompense for having had to retrace our footsteps—and what was equally valuable, much useful information.
'Is the land cut up into small parcels here?' I asked.
We were just then on the outskirts of the town, and he pointed with his whip to a large, well-built farmhouse, with solid, walled-in buildings.
'Most of the land round about Mende is farmed by the monsieur who lives there,' he replied. 'There he is, true enough, with his wife and children.'
Just then we passed a hooded carriage, in which were seated father, mother, two little ones, and nursemaid, all taking a holiday jaunt, the day being Sunday.
'That is the owner of the farm,' he went on: 'several hundred acres—I can't say how many—but it is stocked with two hundred sheep, ten oxen, besides cows and pigs. There you have an idea of the size.'