Cantinières—Morlàas—The Curé—Resintance to Improvement—Uzain—Lescar—Reformation in Navarre—Tombs—François Phoebus—The Mother

CHAPTER X

The Romances of the Castle of Orthez—Tour de Moncade—The Infants—The Son of Gaston Phoebus—Legends—The Oath—The bad King of Navarre—The Quarrel—The Murder—Death of Gaston Phoebus—Paradise the Reward of Hunters—The Captive—The Step-Mother—The Young Countess—The Great Bear—The Return—The Real Cause—The Meeting in the Forest—The Mass

CHAPTER XI

The Countess of Comminges—The Charge—The persecuted Heiress—The Bridge—The Cordelier—Costume—Aspremont—Peyrehourade

CHAPTER XII

Bayonne-Public Walks—Biaritz—Atalaya—Giant Fernagus—Anne of Neubourg—The Dancing Mayor

CHAPTER XIII

Basque Language—Dialects—Words—Poetry—Songs—The Deserter—Character—Drama—Towns

CHAPTER XIV

Cagots—Cacous of Brittany

CHAPTER XV

The Cagot—Vallée d'Aspe—Superstitions—Forests—Despourrins—The two Gaves—Bedous—High-road to Saragossa—Cascade of Lescun—Urdos—A Picture for Murillo—La Vache

CHAPTER XVI

Aramitz—The Play—Mauléon—The Sisters—Words—St. Jean

CHAPTER XVII

Arneguy—The Cacolet—Rolando's Tree—Snow-white Goats—Costume—Sauveterre—The Pastor—Navarreux—Spanish Air

BÉARN AND THE PYRENEES.

CHAPTER I.

Within ten leagues of the interesting town of Caen, where William of Normandy and his queen lie buried, the traveller, who devotes a short space of time to a search after the picturesque, may, without straying too far a-field, find what he desires in the clean, bright, gay town of Falaise, where the hero of the Conquest was born.

From Southampton to Havre it requires only twelve hours to cross, and, as was the case with myself and my companions, when, at the end of August 1842, we began a journey, whose end was "to be" the mountains which divide France from Spain, if the city of parrots is already familiar to the tourist, he has only to take the steam-packet, which in four hours will land him at Caen, or enter the boat which crosses the fine bold river to Honfleur. In an hour you arrive at Honfleur, after a very pleasant voyage, which the inhabitants of Havre are extremely fond of taking: a diligence starts from the quay, and proceeds through an avenue of a league's length between beautiful hills, orchards, and corn-fields, to the strange old town of Lisieux, to which we proceeded.

One of our fellow-travellers in the diligence was a smart, lively looking young woman, whose resemblance to the celebrated actress Dejazet, whom we had very lately seen in London, was so striking as to be quite remarkable. Her tone of voice, her air and manner, as well as her features, reminded us strongly of the artiste whose warm reception in England, where we are supposed to be correct even to fastidiousness, has not a little amused the Parisians at our expense. Whatever may be the objections to Dejazet's style, certain it is that her imitation of the manners of the class of grisettes and peasants is inimitable; not a shade, not a tone, is forgotten, and the truth of her representations is proved at every step you take in France, either in the provinces or in Paris.

Our little talkative companion had much to relate of herself and her husband, whom she described as a piece of perfection; he had just returned from a whaling expedition, after several years' absence, and they were now on their way to Lisieux to visit her relations, and give him a little shooting. He had brought back, according to her account, a mine of wealth; and, as she had incurred no debts during his absence, but had supported herself by opening a little café, which she assured us had succeeded admirably, they were proceeding, with well-filled purses, to see their only child who was in the keeping of its grandmother. She told wondrous histories of his exploits amongst the ice, of his encounters with the natives—"les Indiens," of the success of all his voyages, and the virtues of his captain, who was an Englishman and never spoke to his crew, but was the most just man in the world, and ended by saying that when she met with English people she felt in Paradise.

Although we listened to her continued chattering with amused attention, it was far otherwise with some quiet, silent, women who sat beside us; we soon gathered, by certain contemptuous glances which they exchanged, that they did not give credit to half our little Dejazet was telling; and when to crown the whole, she related a story of a beautiful maiden of Lisieux, who had been distinguished by the notice of the Duke de Nemours when he visited that place on his way to join his ship at Havre, they could support their impatience no longer, and broadly contradicted her on the ground that the Prince de Joinville and not Nemours was the sailor.

Nothing daunted, our gay whaler's wife insisted on every part of her history being true, asserting that she must know best, and if the young prince had left the navy since, it was not her affair.

As she approached Lisieux she became more and more animated, darting her body half way out of the window every minute to look out for her papa or her other relations;—at length, with a scream which would have secured Dejazet three rounds of applause, she recognised her parent in a peasant en blouse, trudging along the road carrying his bundle—on his way, no doubt, as she assured us, to see her sister, who lived at a village near. Tears and smiles alternately divided the expression of her countenance, as