The Roof of France | Page 5

exists a patch of cultivable soil, we see crops of rye,
buckwheat and potatoes, some of these plots being only a few yards
square, and to all appearances inaccessible. In many places earth has
been carried by the basketful to narrow, lofty ledges of rock, an
astounding instance of toil, hopefulness and patience. No matter the
barrenness of the spot, no matter its isolation or the difficulty of
approach, wherever root or seed will grow, there the French peasant
owner plies hoe and spade, and gradually causes the wilderness to
blossom as the rose.
So true it is, as Arthur Young wrote a hundred years ago, 'Give a man
secure possession of a black rock, and he will turn it into a garden.' A
considerable proportion of the land hereabouts has been quite recently
laid under cultivation, and on every side we see bits of waste being
ploughed up.

At Langeac, a little junction between Le Puy and St. Georges d'Aurac,
we had a halt of over two hours, easily spent amid charming scenery.
The air is sweet and fresh, everyone is busy in the fields, and as we
saunter here and there, people look up from their work to greet us with
a smile of contentment and bonhomie. It is a scene of peace and
homely prosperity. A short railway jaunt to Langogne; a bustling
breakfast at the little restaurant; then begins the final packing of the
diligence. The crazy old berline looks as full as it can be before our
four boxes and numerous small packages are taken from the railway
van, and the group of bag and basket laden folks standing round, priests,
nuns, and commis-voyageurs, evidently waiting for a place. Surely
room can never be found for all these! Just then a French tourist came
up and accosted us, smiling ruefully.
'Ah!' he said, shaking his head with affected malice, 'just like you
English--you have secured the best places.'
True enough, the English when they travel are as the wise virgins, and
secure the best places. The French are as the foolish virgins, and trust
ofttimes to chance.
I had, of course, telegraphed from Le Puy the day before for two seats
in the coupé. Our interlocutor, an army surgeon, making a holiday trip
with his wife, was obliged to relinquish the third good place to madame,
placing himself beside the driver on the banquette. The little
disappointment over, we became the best of friends, a highly desirable
contingency in such terribly close quarters.
Once securely packed, we stood no more chance of being unpacked
than potted anchovies on their way from Nantes to Southampton. There
we were, and there perforce we must remain till we reached our
destination. To move a finger, to stir an inch, was out of the question.
Nothing short of physical torture for the space of six hours seemed in
store for us--for the three occupants of that narrow coupé, like
fashionable ladies of old,
'Close mewed in their sedans for fear of air.'

We could at least enjoy the selfish satisfaction of faring better than our
neighbours. The unlucky occupants inside were as short of elbow-
room as ourselves, and had not the enjoyment of the view; the
passengers of the banquette were literally perched on a knife-board,
whilst one old man, a cheery old fellow, supernumerary of the service,
hung mid-air on one side of the vehicle, literally sitting on nothing.
Like the Indian jugglers and the Light Princess of George Macdonald's
wonderful fairy-tale, he had found means to set at nought the law of
gravity.
There he hung, and as the sturdy horses set off at a fast trot, and we
were whirled round one sharp corner after another, I at first expected to
see him lose balance and fall with terrible risk to life and limb. But we
soon discovered that he had mastered the accomplishment of sitting on
air, and was as safe on his invisible seat as we on our hard benches; old
as he was, he seemed to glory in the exploit--exploit, it must be allowed,
of the first water.
Once fairly off, our own bodily discomforts were entirely forgotten, so
splendid the sunshine, so exhilarating the air, so romantic the scenery.
The forty miles' drive passed like a dream.
Our companion, like her husband, was full of health, spirits and
information. She could see nothing of the military surgeon but a pair of
neat, well-polished boots, as he sat aloft beside the driver; every now
and then she craned forward her neck with wifely solicitude and
interrogated the boots:
'Well, love, how do you get on?'
And the boots would make affectionate reply:
'As well as possible, my angel--and you?'
'We couldn't be better off,' answered the enthusiastic little lady cheerily.
Nor in one sense