Close to the Gouffre de Cabouy, whose outflow forms a tributary of the Ouysse, is a cottage where a man lives whose destiny I have often envied.  When he is tired of fishing or shooting, he works in his thriving little vineyard, which he increases every year.  The river is as much his own as if it belonged to him; he gets all he wants by giving himself very little trouble, and has no cares.  We needed this man’s boat for our expedition, and we found it drawn into a little cove beside the ruined mill, long since abandoned.  It was a somewhat porous old punt, with small fish swimming about in the bottom; but it was well enough for our purpose.  In the warm sunshine of the October afternoon we glided gently down the quiet stream, which is very deep, but so clear that you can see all the water-plants which revel in it, down to the sand and pebbles.  Near the banks we passed over masses of watercress, and what might be likened to floating fields of lilies and pond-weed.

It needed no little reflection and expenditure of art to insert the prow of the boat into the mouth of the cavern.  What an ugly and uninteresting hole I then thought it!  Having run the punt as far as we could into the opening, there still remained about six feet of water to cross before reaching the sandy mud beyond.  A plank, however, that we brought with us served as a bridge.  The story of the otters was no fable, for here were the footprints of the beasts all over the mud.  We lighted candles and looked into the hole.  The ground rose and the roof descended, so that to enter it was necessary to lie perfectly flat, and to crawl along by a movement very like that of swimming; then the passage became so small that there was only room for one to go at a time.  Neither of us was ambitious to go first, for there was just a chance of an otter seizing the invader by the nose; but neither liked to show the white feather.  Each in turn went in a few yards, planted a lighted candle in the mud, and then found some pretext for returning.  The hot air of the cavern was almost suffocating, and one felt so helpless flattened against the earth, with the rock pressing so tight upon the back that even to wriggle along was difficult.  ’Decros is a native,’ thought I, ’and he ought to be used to this kind of work.  I will let him understand that he is expected now to do his duty.’  In he went again, and planted another candle about a yard in front of the last one.  Then he stopped and fired a shot from the revolver that we carried in turn for the otters, and the sound of the detonation seemed to echo in a muffled fashion from the bowels of the earth.

‘How many otters have you killed?’ I shouted.

‘None,’ he replied.  ‘I just fired to let them know that we are here.’