It does not rain, so we ramble off about the streets again.  There is an eminence near the village on which stand the remains of the old castle of Ste. Marie, and which we are told gives a wide survey over the valley; but we are out with all eminences and refuse to patronize it.  We drift again into our little shop of the hempen shoes, with soap for a pretext; the proprietor and his wife are affable and unclouded as ever; and we while off a half hour in another talk with them and some trifling purchases.  One learns many lessons in civility in Continental shopping; more usually it is a woman alone who presides, some genuinely winsome old lady often, with white cap and grandmotherly smile.  The lifting of the hat as we enter ensures invariably the politest of treatment, and when we depart, it is with the feeling that we have gained another friend for life.

The village stretches itself lengthily about, as many Continental towns do; its limbs, like Satan’s,

      “Extended long and large,
  Lay floating many a rood,”

and two of us later signalize a stroll by becoming lost,—­lost in Luz.  We look helplessly down along the lanes and neat streets for the familiar little porch over the Gave and the open space in front and the overhanging eaves of our hotel.  Gone the church, gone the store of the shoes and soap, gone the carriage-shed, the Hotel de l’Univers,—­all landmarks gone.  It is not until we are driven to the humiliation of actually asking our way, that the alleys are unraveled and show us safely home, into the scoffs and contumely of the unregenerate.

After lunch, the weather is still gloomy, but there is no rain, and we leave Luz for Bareges toward the last of the afternoon, if not in sunshine, at least over a dry road.  Some of us are on foot, so but one carriage is needed for the others, and the Widow Puyotte stands smiling at the door as we move away, wishing us fine weather for the morrow’s ride on from Bareges over the Col du Tourmalet,—­since any further wishes for to-day’s weather would be manifestly inoperative.

The Baths of Bareges are on the continuing girdle of the Route Thermale as it extends its way onward from Luz toward Bigorre; they lie about four miles up a short, desolate, east-and-west valley which opens from the hollow of Luz and closes beyond them in a col over which goes the road.  These baths are much higher than Luz, and the way is a steady incline throughout.  The valley soon shows itself in marked change from the fertile basin we have quitted; it grows bleak and less cultivated; rubbly slopes of shale and slate cover the hills; the vegetation becomes scanter.  We are nearing now the Pic du Midi de Bigorre, the summit seen so plainly from Pau, far eastward of the Pic du Midi d’Ossau.  It is not as yet in sight from this valley, however, though we are approaching it nearly and though it closely overtops the col which rises beyond Bareges.