'Why, yes,' said she. 'Cannot you see for yourself that it is open?'
That was true enough, and it explained a great deal. But it did not
explain how - seeing that if you leave a bottle of wine uncorked for
ten minutes you spoil it - you can keep gallons of it in a great wide
can, for all the world like so much milk, milked from the Panthers of
the God. I determined to test the prodigy yet further, and choosing
the middle price, at fourpence a quart, I said -
'Pray give me a hap'orth in a mug.'
This the woman at once did, and when I came to drink it, it was
delicious. Sweet, cool, strong, lifting the heart, satisfying, and
full of all those things wine-merchants talk of, bouquet, and body,
and flavour. It was what I have heard called a very pretty wine.
I did not wait, however, to discuss the marvel, but accepted it as one
of those mysteries of which this pilgrimage was already giving me
examples, and of which more were to come - (wait till you hear about
the brigand of Radicofani). I said to myself -
'When I get out of the Terre Majeure, and away from the strong and
excellent government of the Republic, when I am lost in the Jura Hills
to-morrow there will be no such wine as this.'
So I bought a quart of it, corked it up very tight, put it in my sack,
and held it in store against the wineless places on the flanks of the
hill called Terrible, where there are no soldiers, and where Swiss is
the current language. Then I went on into the centre of the town.
As I passed over the old bridge into the market-place, where I
proposed to lunch (the sun was terrible - it was close upon eleven), I
saw them building parallel with that old bridge a new one to replace
it. And the way they build a bridge in Belfort is so wonderfully
simple, and yet so new, that it is well worth telling.
In most places when a bridge has to be made, there is an infinite
pother and worry about building the piers, coffer-dams, and heaven
knows what else. Some swing their bridges to avoid this trouble, and
some try to throw an arch of one span from side to side. There are a
thousand different tricks. In Belfort they simply wait until the water
has run away. Then a great brigade of workmen run down into the dry
bed of the river and dig the foundations feverishly, and begin
building the piers in great haste. Soon the water comes back, but the
piers are already above it, and the rest of the work is done from
boats. This is absolutely true. Not only did I see the men in the bed
of the river, but a man whom I asked told me that it seemed to him the
most natural way to build bridges, and doubted if they were ever made
in any other fashion.
