It is a brief journey by the rail.  The longer post-road no longer controls the travel.  The train hastens on, by the coteaux, past maize-fields and meadows, through odds and ends of villages, into valleys more irregular, and among hills higher and steeper.  Of Bielle, a village where it halts for a moment, there is a well-turned story told against Henry IV.  It is one of the few cases where he was at a loss for a retort.  He admired the four marble columns in the church, and asked for them; a kingly asking is usually equivalent to a command.  But the inhabitants made reply both dexterous and firm, and it proved unanswerable.  “Our hearts and our possessions are yours,” they said; “do with them as you will.  But as to the columns, those belong to God; we are bound for their custody, and you will have to arrange that with Him!”

When the train reaches its terminus at Laruns, we are fairly among the highlands.  Rising wedge-shaped beyond the town, dividing all progress, is a mountain,—­not a hill.  To the left and right of it pass the roads we are in turn to follow.  On the left, two miles beyond the fork or three from the railway’s end, will be found Eaux Bonnes; on the right, at the same distance, is its lesser equal, Eaux Chaudes, our first objective point.

In the distant direction of the former rises the snowy Pic de Ger, nearly nine thousand feet in height and conspicuous from where we stand at the station platform.  Still leftward, east of the hills, is a notch in the mountains; through it, we are told, pierces the Route Thermale,—­the great carriage-road on to Cauterets and Bigorre, which we are to take after visiting the Eaux.

Here at the Laruns station, we find our breack awaiting us,—­a peer of the peerless Biarritz equipage.  It has been sent down from Eaux Bonnes to meet us.  Trunk and baggage are stowed away, and we are driven up the straight, sloping road from the station into the village of Laruns itself, where a stop is to be made for lunch.

The appearances are not prepossessing.  Laruns is a small village centring about a large square.  It looks unpromising, and one of its most unpromising buildings proves to be the “hotel,”—­a low, dingy, stone building set in among its mates.  At this the breack draws up.  The splendor of the Gassion seems in the impossible past.  The expectant landlady urges us within; her face beams pleasantly; her appearance promises at least more than does her environment.  One by one and very doubtfully, we enter a dark, narrow doorway; pass along a dark, harrow hall, walled and floored with stone; catch a passing vista of a kitchen, a white-jacketed and white-capped cook, and a vast amount of steam and crackle and splutter near the stove; and going up the curving stairs are led into a neat little front dining-room overlooking the square.  The carpet is of unpainted pine; so are the table and chairs; but both are clean, and this fact cheers.  With misgivings we ask for a lunch for seven; without misgivings it is promptly promised, and the beaming hostess hurries to the depths below.  Whether her quest shall bring us chill or further cheer, we do not seek to guess.