The Pyrenees were in sight Page 112
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
Leaving our car in the garage and our sympathy with the unfortunate chauffeur, we went in to give appreciative attention to a well-served ménu. So long as we remained in France we never failed to order sardines. There is a certain quality and delicacy about the flavor of the French sardine which one misses outside of that country. Coffee was served outside, under the trees in front of the hotel, where we could watch the life of the road. St. Gaudens is on the main highway passing through the Pyrenees to Cannes and Nice on the Riviera. It is also the central market for the fine cattle of the Pyrenees, and for their sale and distribution to other parts of France and the outside world. We could see them swaying lazily along the road, big, powerful creatures with wide horns and glossy skin.
Descending from St. Gaudens into the plain, we shot along the highway to Montréjeau, where there was a steep ascent through this bizarre little town, very Italian looking with its arcaded streets, red roofs, and brightly painted shutters. Then the moors of a high plateau swept by us until we darted downward and curved for several miles through a beautiful wooded valley.
One of the front tires was evidently in trouble. It was our first puncture in more than thirteen hundred miles of motoring, not a bad record when one considers the frequency of such accidents on European roads, where the hobnails of peasants lie in ambush at every turn. We halted by the side of the road, to put on a fresh tire, refusing many offers of assistance from passing cars.
An unusual reception awaited us near Tournay. The whole barnyard family had taken the road for their private promenade. There were a couple of mules, some goats, half a dozen geese, and a large white bull. He was a savage looking brute as he stood facing us and angrily pawing the ground. It did not add to our composure when a gaunt collie, awakened by the noise, came snarling up to the car. At this eventful moment, the engine stopped running. No one of us was in a hurry to alight and "crank up." The barnyard clamor would have rivaled the well-known symphony of the Edison Phonograph Company of New York and Paris. At last a peasant appeared. He whistled to the dog and succeeded in driving the bull to one side, so that we could edge by to less dangerous scenes.
The standard of living in these mountain communities is not high. We saw one farmhouse where the goats moved in and out as if very much at home and on the same social footing as their peasant owners. A mile farther on, we were spectators at a dance which the peasants were giving along the roadside. There was an orchestra of two violins and a cornet, enthroned upon a wooden platform brightly decorated with flags and flowers. A dozen couples were dancing up and down the road. Wooden shoes were all the style. This unique ballroom floor impressed us as being rather dusty. Steepsided valleys yawned in quick succession. There were views of the snowy Pyrenees. On the side of a mountain we caught a moment's glimpse of Tarbes in the plain.
The Grand Hôtel Moderne was a happy surprise. The elevator actually worked, and the running hot and cold water was a boon delightful to find after these dusty mountain roads. Tarbes is chiefly interesting for its great horse-breeding industry. Barère, the regicide, described by Macaulay as coming "nearer than any person mentioned in history or fiction, whether man or devil, to the idea of consummate and universal depravity," was born here in 1755. Tourist traffic has found Tarbes to be a convenient stopping place on the through route from Biarritz on the Atlantic to the winter resorts of the Mediterranean shores, and also a natural center for excursions to the Pyrenees. We remained in Tarbes an extra day to make the trip to Lourdes, the tragic Mecca for increasing thousands of Catholic pilgrims.
