Two Summers in Guyenne | Page 7

the shade of overhanging boughs. It was
dedicated to St. John the Baptist, and on St. John's Day mass was said
in it, and the spot was the scene of a pilgrimage. Outside was a
half-decayed moss-green wooden platform on which the priest stood
while he preached to the assembled pilgrims. The young man left me,
and I went on alone into the more sombre depths of the gorge, where I
reached the single line of railway that runs here through some of the
wildest scenery in France. I kept on the edge of it, where walking,
although very rough, was easier than on the steep side of the split that
had here taken place in the earth's crust. Upon the narrow stony strip of
comparatively level ground the sun's rays fell with concentrated ardour,
and along it was a brilliant bloom of late summer flowers--of camomile,
St. John's wort, purple loosestrife, hemp-agrimony and lamium. At
almost every step there was a rustle of a lizard or a snake. The
melancholy cry of the hawk was the only sound of bird-life. Near rocks
of dazzling mica-schist was a miserable hut with a patch of buckwheat
reaching to the stream. A man standing amidst the white flowers of the
late-sown crop said, in answer to my questioning, that I could not

possibly reach the village of Port-Dieu without walking upon the line
and through the tunnels.
When I had left him about fifty yards behind, his curiosity proved more
than he could bear in silence; so he called out to me, in the bad French
that is spoken hereabouts by those who use it only as the language of
strangers: '_Quel métier que vous faites?_'
I waved my hand in reply and left him to his conjectures.
On I went, now over the glittering stones, now wading through the pink
flowers of saponaria, then in a mimic forest of tall angelica by the
water's edge, until I realized that the peasant's information was
sound--that it was impossible to walk through this gorge except upon
the railway.
Presently the rocks rose in front of me and the line disappeared into the
darkness of a tunnel. I did not like the idea of entering this black hole,
for I had brought no candle with me, but the prospect of climbing the
rocks was still more forbidding. It proved to be a short and straight
tunnel with daylight shining at the farther end. After this came another
short one, but the third was much longer and had a curve; consequently
I was soon in total darkness. The only danger to be feared was a
passing train, so I felt with my stick for the wires between the rock and
the metals, and crept along by them. From being broiled by the sun ten
minutes before I was now shivering from the cold. I longed to see again
the flowers basking under the warm sky, and to hear the grasshoppers'
happy song. By-and-by I saw the blessed light flashing at the end of the
black bore. When I came out again into the sunshine, I was following,
not the Chavannon, but the Dordogne.
The gorge widened into a valley, where there were scattered cottages,
cows, sheep, and goats. Here I found a fair road on the western side of
the river, in the department of the Corrèze, and being now free of mind,
I loitered on the way, picking strawberries and watching the lizards. It
was dark when, descending again to the level of the Dordogne, I sought
a lodging in the little village of Port-Dieu. I stopped at a cottage inn,
where an old man soon set to work at the wood-fire and cooked me a
dinner of eggs and bacon and fried potatoes. He was a rough cook, but
one very anxious to please. The room where I passed the night had a
long table in it, and benches. There was no blanket on the bed, only a
sheet and a heavy patchwork quilt. Ah, yes, there was something else,

carefully laid upon the quilt. This was a linen bag without an opening,
which, when spread out, tapered towards the ends. Had I not known
something about the old-fashioned nightcap, I should have puzzled a
long time before discovering what I was expected to do with this object.
The matter is simple to those who know that the cap is formed by
turning one of the ends in. There were mosquitoes in the room, but they
sang me to sleep, and if they amused themselves at my expense
afterwards, I was quite unconscious of it.
The murmur of the rushing Dordogne mingled not unpleasantly with
the impressions of dreams as I awoke. I got up and opened the small
worm-eaten window-frame. High thatched roofs, not