I went down beside the Gardon of Mialet, a great
glaring watercourse devoid of water, and through St. Etienne de Vallee
Francaise, or Val Francesque, as they used to call it; and towards
evening began to ascend the hill of St. Pierre. It was a long and steep
ascent. Behind me an empty carriage returning to St. Jean du Gard kept
hard upon my tracks, and near the summit overtook me. The driver, like
the rest of the world, was sure I was a pedlar; but, unlike others, he
was sure of what I had to sell. He had noticed the blue wool which hung
out of my pack at either end; and from this he had decided, beyond my
power to alter his decision, that I dealt in blue-wool collars, such as
decorate the neck of the French draught-horse.
I had hurried to the topmost powers of Modestine, for I dearly desired to
see the view upon the other side before the day had faded. But it was
night when I reached the summit; the moon was riding high and clear; and
only a few grey streaks of twilight lingered in the west. A yawning
valley, gulfed in blackness, lay like a hole in created nature at my
feet; but the outline of the hills was sharp against the sky. There was
Mount Aigoal, the stronghold of Castanet. And Castanet, not only as an
active undertaking leader, deserves some mention among Camisards; for
there is a spray of rose among his laurel; and he showed how, even in a
public tragedy, love will have its way. In the high tide of war he
married, in his mountain citadel, a young and pretty lass called
Mariette. There were great rejoicings; and the bridegroom released five-
and-twenty prisoners in honour of the glad event. Seven months
afterwards, Mariette, the Princess of the Cevennes, as they called her in
derision, fell into the hands of the authorities, where it was like to
have gone hard with her. But Castanet was a man of execution, and loved
his wife. He fell on Valleraugue, and got a lady there for a hostage;
and for the first and last time in that war there was an exchange of
prisoners. Their daughter, pledge of some starry night upon Mount
Aigoal, has left descendants to this day.
Modestine and I - it was our last meal together - had a snack upon the top
of St. Pierre, I on a heap of stones, she standing by me in the moonlight
and decorously eating bread out of my hand. The poor brute would eat
more heartily in this manner; for she had a sort of affection for me,
which I was soon to betray.
It was a long descent upon St. Jean du Gard, and we met no one but a
carter, visible afar off by the glint of the moon on his extinguished
lantern.
Before ten o'clock we had got in and were at supper; fifteen miles and a
stiff hill in little beyond six hours!
FAREWELL, MODESTINE!
On examination, on the morning of October 3rd, Modestine was pronounced
unfit for travel. She would need at least two days' repose, according to
the ostler; but I was now eager to reach Alais for my letters; and, being
in a civilised country of stage-coaches, I determined to sell my lady
friend and be off by the diligence that afternoon. Our yesterday's
march, with the testimony of the driver who had pursued us up the long
hill of St. Pierre, spread a favourable notion of my donkey's
capabilities. Intending purchasers were aware of an unrivalled
opportunity. Before ten I had an offer of twenty-five francs; and before
noon, after a desperate engagement, I sold her, saddle and all, for five-
and-thirty. The pecuniary gain is not obvious, but I had bought freedom
into the bargain.
St Jean du Gard is a large place, and largely Protestant. The maire, a
Protestant, asked me to help him in a small matter which is itself
characteristic of the country. The young women of the Cevennes profit by
the common religion and the difference of the language to go largely as
governesses into England; and here was one, a native of Mialet,
struggling with English circulars from two different agencies in London.
I gave what help I could; and volunteered some advice, which struck me as
being excellent.
One thing more I note. The phylloxera has ravaged the vineyards in this
neighbourhood; and in the early morning, under some chestnuts by the
river, I found a party of men working with a cider-press. I could not at
first make out what they were after, and asked one fellow to explain.
'Making cider,' he said. 'Oui, c'est comme ca. Comme dans le nord!'
There was a ring of sarcasm in his voice: the country was going to the
devil.
It was not until I was fairly seated by the driver, and rattling through
a rocky valley with dwarf olives, that I became aware of my bereavement.
I had lost Modestine. Up to that moment I had thought I hated her; but
now she was gone,
'And oh!
The difference to me!'
For twelve days we had been fast companions; we had travelled upwards of
a hundred and twenty miles, crossed several respectable ridges, and
jogged along with our six legs by many a rocky and many a boggy by-road.
After the first day, although sometimes I was hurt and distant in manner,
I still kept my patience; and as for her, poor soul! she had come to
regard me as a god. She loved to eat out of my hand. She was patient,
elegant in form, the colour of an ideal mouse, and inimitably small.
