So two of us sally forth into the drizzle with the driver, and a few rods up the street turn off into an alley-way, where the wagonette is found under a shed.  It is small,—­deplorably small; the seat will ungraciously hold two persons, and a stool can be crowded in in front for a driver.  There is no top nor hood of any sort, and the hotel barometer is still falling steadily.

But we are resolved to leave Bareges.

“Is this the best that one can obtain?” I ask ruefully.

“There is one other, monsieur, close by; but it is yet smaller.”

This clinches the matter, and we conclude a bargain with the proprietor for an early departure and hurry back to the dim joys of the hotel reception-room.

IV.

The clouds themselves descend with the drizzle during the night, and we are greeted when we wake by a white opacity of mist and fog filling the hotel courtyard and leaking moisture at every pore.  We think shiveringly of the wagonette, but more shiveringly still of Bareges; and resolutely array ourselves for a long and watery day among the clouds.

Our route will continue by the Thermal Road on to Bagneres de Bigorre.  There is again a col in the way which we must cross,—­the Col du Tourmalet, a shoulder of the Pic du Midi de Bigorre, separating this Valley of Bastan from the greater lateral Valley of Campan.  It is a long ride with the ascent and descent,—­twenty-five miles at the least; but it can be easily made in the day, and there is a midway halting-place beyond the col for lunch.

Our Luz landau appears promptly on the scene, comfortably enclosed and inviting; and the ridiculous wagonette creeps up behind it, in apologetic and shamefaced comparison.  The driver of the wagonette, however, a tough, grizzled old guide, is not shamefaced in the least, but grins broadly and contentedly as he sits there wrapped in his tarpaulin, wet and shiny under the steady rain.  The landau soon hospitably receives the favored majority, and disappears into the mist up the street; and the remaining two of us turn to the wagonette,—­and turning, involuntarily catch the infection of the old guide’s grin.  After all, there is a certain zest in discomfort; we clamber in and draw the rough robe around us, unfurl our complicated Cauterets umbrella, and agree that the truest policy is to make little of discomfort and much of its zest.

Old Membielle gathers the tarpaulin about his stool before us, chirrups toward the damp steam which symbolizes a horse, and we move off up the long, soppy street, past its houses and jails and grey bathing-penitentiary,—­and out at last from Bareges.  Out from Bareges, though into the vast unknown; and our spirits rise higher as the baleful spell of the spot is lifted and left behind.

V.