The Roof of France | Page 2

Lozère, hitherto the Cinderella, poorest of the poor of French
provinces, is destined to become one of the richest. Not only the

Causses, but the Cañon du Tarn, may be regarded in the light of a
discovery by the tourist world. A few years ago the famous geographer,
Joanne, was silent on both. Chance-wise, members of the French
Alpine Club lighted upon this stupendous defile between the Causse de
Sauveterre and the Causse Méjean; their glorious find became noised
abroad, and now the Tarn is as a Pactolus flowing over golden sands--a
mine of wealth to the simple country folk around. The river, springing
from a cleft in the Lozère chain, winding its impetuous way, enriched
by many a mountain torrent, through the Aveyron, Tarn, and Garonne,
finally disemboguing into the Garonne, has lavished all its witchery on
its native place.
Every inch of the way between the little towns of St. Énimie and Le
Rozier is enchanted ground by virtue of unrivalled scenery. In time the
influx of tourists must make the river-side population rich. The sandy
bed of the Tarn must attain the preciousness of a building site near
Paris. This materialistic view of the question affords mixed feelings. I
have in mind the frugality of these country folks, their laboriousness,
their simple, upright, sturdy ways. I can but wish them well, even at the
price of terrible disenchantment. Instead of rustic hostelries at St.
Énimie, gigantic hotels after the manner of Swiss tourist barracks; the
solitude of the Causses broken by enthusiastic tittle-tattle; tourist-laden
flotillas bearing the ensign of Cook or Gaze skimming the glassy
waters of the majestically environed Tarn!
On the threshold of the Lozère, just outside the limits of the department,
lies another newly-discovered marvel, more striking, stranger than the
scenery of the Causses--as beautiful, though in quite another way, as
the Cañon or Gorge of the Tarn. This is the fantastic, the unique, the
eerie Cité du Diable, or Montpellier-le-Vieux, with its citadel, ramparts,
watch-towers, amphitheatres, streets, arcades, terraces--a vast
metropolis in the wilderness, a Babylon untenanted from the beginning,
a Nineveh fashioned only by the great builder Nature. Little wonder
that the peasants formerly spoke of the dolomite city, when forced to
speak at all, with bated breath, and gave it so ill-omened a name. The
once uncanny, misprized, even accursed city, since surnamed
Montpellier-le-Vieux, from a fancied resemblance to Montpellier, is

now very differently regarded by its humble owners.
Literally discovered in 1882, its first explorers being two members of
the French Alpine Club, the Cité du Diable is already bringing in a
revenue. French tourists, who first came by twos and threes, may now
be counted by the hundred a month during the holiday season. Alert to
the unmistakable rat-tat-tat of Dame Fortune at their front-doors, the
good folks are preparing for the welcome invasions to come. The
auberge is being transformed into an inn, roads are improving, a regular
service of guides has been organized, and all charges for guides,
carriages, and mules have been regulated by tariff. It is hardly possible
to exaggerate the weird fascination and eldritch charm of this once
dreaded, ill-omened place. Only one pen--that, alas! at rest for ever--
could have done justice to such a theme. In the hands of the great Sand,
Montpellier-le-Vieux might have afforded us a chef d'œuvre to set
beside 'La Ville Noire' or the adorable 'Jeanne.'
Fresh and interesting as is a sojourn on the Roof of France, a name in
verity accorded to the Lozère, I have not restricted myself within such
limits. The climbing up and the getting down offer many a racy and
novel experience. I have given not only the middle of my journey, but
the beginning and the end. Those of my country-folk who have
traversed the picturesque little land of the French Morran, who have
steamed from Lyons to Avignon, made their way by road through the
Gard and the Aveyron, and sojourned in the cheese-making region of
the Cantal--I fancy their number is not legion--may pass over my
chapters thus headed. Had I one object in view only, to sell my book, I
must have reversed the usual order of things, and put the latter half in
place of the first. I prefer the more methodical plan, and comfort myself
with the reflection that France, excepting Brittany, Normandy, the
Pyrenees, the Riviera and the Hotel du Jura, Dijon, is really much less
familiar to English travellers than Nijni-Novgorod or Jerusalem. I no
more encountered anyone British born during my two journeys in the
Lozère than I did a beggar. This privileged corner of the earth enjoys an
absolute immunity from excursionists and mendicants. Strong
enthusiasts, lovers of France, moved to tread in my footsteps, will
hardly accuse me of exaggerating either the scenery,