In the Heart of the Vosges | Page 6

tried to
make out, looked more like cloudland than solid reality. On clear days
are discerned here, far beyond the rounded summits of the Vosges
chain, the Rhine Valley, the Black Forest, the Jura range, and the
snow-capped Alps. To-day we saw grand masses of mountains piled
one above the other, and higher still a pageantry of azure and gold that
seemed to belong to the clouds.
No morning could promise fairer, but hardly had we reached the goal of
our walk when from far below came an ominous sound of thunder, and
we saw heavy rain-clouds dropping upon the heights we had left
behind.
All hope of a fine prospect was now at an end, but instead we had a
compensating spectacle. For thick and fast the clouds came pouring
into one chasm after another, drifting in all directions, here a mere
transparent veil drawn across the violet hills, there a golden splendour
as of some smaller sun shining on a green little world. At one moment
the whole vast scene was blurred and blotted with chill winter mist;
soon a break was visible, and far away we gazed on a span of serene
amethystine sky, barred with lines of bright gold. Not one, but a dozen,
horizons--a dozen heavens--seemed there, whilst the thunder that
reached us from below seemed too remote to threaten. But at last the
clouds gathered in form and volume, hiding the little firmaments of

violet and amber; the bright blue sky, bending over the green oasis--all
vanished as if by magic. We could see no more, and nothing remained
but to go back, and the quicker the better. The storm, our guide said,
was too far off to reach us yet, and we might reach the châlet without
being drenched to the skin, as we fortunately did. No sooner, however,
were we fairly under shelter than the rain poured down in torrents and
the thunder pealed overhead. In no part of France are thunderstorms so
frequent and so destructive as here, nowhere is the climate less to be
depended on. A big umbrella, stout shoes, and a waterproof are as
necessary in the Vosges as in our own Lake district.
We had, however, a fine afternoon for our drive back, a quick downhill
journey along the edge of a tremendous precipice, clothed with
beech-trees and brushwood. A most beautiful road it is, and the two
little lakes looked lovely in the sunshine, encircled by gold-green
swards and a delicate screen of alder branches. Through pastures white
with meadow-sweet the turbulent, crystal-clear little river Vologne
flowed merrily, making dozens of tiny cascades, turning a dozen
mill-wheels in its course. All the air was fragrant with newly-turned
hay, and never, we thought, had Gérardmer and its lake made a more
captivating picture.
Excursions innumerable may be made from Gérardmer. We may drive
across country to Remiremont, to Plombières, to Wesserling, to Colmar,
to St. Dié, whilst these places in turn make very good centres for
excursions. On no account must a visit to La Bresse be omitted. This is
one of the most ancient towns in the Vosges. Like some of the villages
in the Morvan and in the department of La Nièvre, La Bresse remained
till the Revolution an independent commune, a republic in miniature.
The heads of families of both sexes took part in the election of
magistrates, and from this patriarchal legislation there was seldom any
appeal to the higher court--namely, that of Nancy. La Bresse is still a
rich commune by reason of its forests and industries. The sound of the
mill-wheel and hammer now disturbs these mountain solitudes, and
although so isolated by natural position, this little town is no longer cut
off from cosmopolitan influence. The little tavern is developing into a
very fair inn. In the summer tourists from all parts of France pass
through it, in carriages, on foot, occasionally on horseback. Most likely
it now possesses a railway station, a newspaper kiosk, and a big hotel,

as at Gérardmer!
As we drop down upon La Bresse after our climb of two hours and
more, we seem to be at the world's end. Our road has led us higher and
higher by dense forests and wild granite parapets, tasselled with fern
and foxglove, till we suddenly wheel round upon a little straggling
town marvellously placed. Deep down it lies, amid fairy-like greenery
and silvery streams, whilst high above tower the rugged forest peaks
and far-off blue mountains, in striking contrast.
The sloping green banks, starred with the grass of Parnassus, and
musical with a dozen streams, the pastoral dwellings, each with its
patch of flower garden and croft; the glades, dells and natural terraces
are all sunny and gracious as can be; but round about and high above
frown inaccessible