The first mile in the road is perhaps the most frequented bit in the Pyrenees; it is the route to a second large spring-house known as the Raillere, which is even more sought than the one in the town.  We find the wayside everything but dull.  Omnibuses meet us frequently, wealthier drinkers pass in light carriages, while many, going or coming, are enjoying the journey on foot.  Each is armed with his or her individual drinking-cup, worn by a strap over the shoulder like field-glasses.  The road is somewhat shadeless, and at noon will be hot; but this is an early-morning route.  These are sunrise waters.  Such is the dictum or the wont.  The faithful even work up a mild daily rivalry in early waking.  This may aid to make them healthy; improbably, wealthy; but it does not show them to be wise.  Time is always quoted under par at a summer resort; why should the idlers heedlessly load up with too much of the stock?  These people have come out here, many of them, at six and seven o’clock, a few even earlier; they have sipped their modicum of sulphur and scandal, have prolonged the event as fully as possible, and must now ripple irregularly back toward the town, objectless entirely until the noon music and the atoning siesta.

The building itself, a large, prominent structure, stands out on the slope of a sterile mountain side, the road sweeping up to its level in a long, elliptic curve.  We find much people here congregated, and omnibuses and footfarers are still arriving and departing.  Among the throng are three veritable Capuchin monks, thickly weighted with enfolding hoods and brown woolen gowns, the latter heavy and long and girdled at the waist,—­a light, airy costume for a warm day.  Our drivers stop here while one of them repairs a broken strap, and we contentedly watch and speculate upon the assemblage.

Three other smaller spring-establishments are passed in turn, farther up the valley.  Each has its specialty and its limited but believing clientele.  Then the road becomes solitary, and ephemeral humanity is left behind.  Soon the slow, even strain of the horses tells of stiffer work than along the easy, inclines nearer the Raillere.  The Gave comes jumping downward more and more hurriedly, and presently its restless mutterings deepen into a dull growl, which grows louder.  It rises by degrees to a roar, the road makes a last energetic bend,—­and we are looking down upon the famed Cerizet cascade.  It is a broad rush of the stream, thundering beneath the bridge; there is an unexpected body to the fall; the massed water bounds down a double ledge, and swirls angrily away down the gorge.  The scene is strikingly set, with slippery rocks and dark-green box bordering the torrent, and the cliffs rising sharply around, naked and bony or furred with box and pine.  This is the favorite short drive from Cauterets.  Pedestrians seek it, as well.  The Cerizet holds the charm of its wildness alike for the idler and the lover of nature.