My first care, after coffee and a bath, was to examine the landlord of the hotel on momentous question of mules and donkeys.  At Lucerne, I told him, they had assured me that the animals “flourished” in Canton Ticino and the neighbourhood of the Italian Lakes.  But I met with no encouragement.  Mules and donkeys were rarely seen in these parts, the host declared.  True, a few peasants employed them in the fields; but those were poor things, unfit for an excursion such as Monsieur purposed.  At Piedimulera, perhaps, Monsieur would find what he wanted; yes, at Piedimulera, or if not, at Domodossola; or—­his face brightened—­in the Valais, preferably at Brig.  Yes, he was certain that mules and asses in abundance could be found at Brig in the Rhone Valley.  Brig!  My heart sank.  It was the old story.  Counterfeiting patience, I explained that I had an antipathy to the Rhone Valley, and had actually crossed the Alps to find animals in Italy rather than be driven to seek them in Brig.

Crushed by a hopeless, answering gesture, I made my report to Molly and Jack.  “It will end,” I said, “in my traversing the world, and eventually arriving in Japan, still searching the rara avis.  By that time I shall have become a harmless lunatic, and people will treat my babblings with indulgent forbearance, when I go from house to house begging to be supplied with a pack-mule or a pack-donkey.”

At dejeuner, in a garden which was a successful imitation of Eden, the situation did not, however, look so dark.  The perfume of flowers, distilled by the hot sun, was of Araby the Blest; the Borromean Islands spread their enchantments before us, across a glittering blue expanse of lake, and the world was after all endurable, though empty of mules.  Besides, Molly was a sweet consoler.  She dwelt on the hopeful suggestion in the name Piedimulera.  It could not be wholly deceiving, she argued.  Why name a place Foot-of-a-Mule, if there were no mules there?

“If there aren’t,” I exclaimed, “I swear to you that I will, by fair means or foul, dispose of at Piedimulera all the things with which I fondly thought to deck the animal my fancy had painted.  Everything I bought at Bern shall go, if I have to dig a grave by night in which to bury them.  This is a vow, and though my heart be wrung, I’ll keep it.”

Molly listened to this outburst as gravely as if I had been threatening to sacrifice a son, did not some incredible good fortune supply a ram caught by his horns in the bushes.

For Piedimulera we left in the afternoon, somewhat buoyed up by the omen of the name.  The way led back towards the Alps, up a broad and beautiful valley strewn with evidences of the works for the Simplon railway:  embankments, bridges, quarries, and occasional groups of workmen hauling rhythmically on the many ropes of a pile-driver.  Presently we swerved from the main road, and crossed the valley bed, obedient to the map, which was our only guide to Piedimulera.  We passed one or two romantically placed, ancient villages, each of which I hoped might be our goal; but, as usual in life, the town for which we were bound did not appear as alluring as other towns, where we had no need to stop.