Our breack comes pompously to the terrace by the hotel, and the hostess wishes us "une belle excursion." The road takes us on through the village, and pushes up into the valley with an ascent which is not steep but which never relaxes.  Around us the scene grows increasingly wild and everywhere picturesque.  We cross at some height the Gave, by the stone Pont d’Enfer,—­Bridge of Hell, so named,—­and keep along the westerly bank.  On one side the ledges are bare, but the opposite slopes are greener, densely wooded, and ribboned by occasional cascades.  Goats and cattle graze on the upper stretches of herbage; and the shadows of the clouds chase each other in great islands over the broad flanks of the mountain.  Often, as the horses pause to rest, panting silently with the work, we climb down from our perches to walk on against the warm breeze, or clamber up from the roadway to add a prize to the ladies’ mountain bouquets.

At a noted angle in the trend of the valley, the forked white cone of the great Pic comes suddenly into sight.  The vision lasts but a minute.  A cloud sweeps down upon it, and when it lifts again we have passed the point of view.

We anathematize the intruder openly; this is incautious, for our anathemas provoke reprisals.  Other clouds rally around their offended sister in support, as we push slowly onward, and some of the nearer mountains are soon enveloped also.  The blue sky is forced back, cut off in all directions; even the pusillanimous sun retires from the conflict; the heavens have darkened ominously.

In an hour and a half from Eaux Chaudes, we have come to Gabas, 3600 feet above the sea.  The place consists of two or three houses, and a dull little inn by a patch of wooded park.  It does not attract overmuch, but to go farther at present is manifestly unwise.  Nature’s smile has become a pout, and that is fast developing into a crying-spell.  The guide and ponies sent on from Madame Baudot’s must wait.  The breack is tarpaulined and left to the pines in the park, the horses are led off into the stable, and we disconsolately enter the hotel, to chill the coming hour with spiritless lemonade and a period of waiting.

I believe it will always rain on you at Gabas.  The few persons we had hitherto met who had been to Eaux Chaudes enthusiastically praised this trip toward the Pic du Midi,—­“but we could not complete it, ourselves.” they invariably added, “because it came on to shower when we reached Gabas.”  We had smiled commiseratingly, confident of being better favored.  Now we find that the clouds, jealous body-guard of this regal summit, which is “first a trap and then an abiding-place for every vagrant vapor,” can deny him alike to the just and the unjust,—­that they trouble little to make distinctions, even where nationality is involved.

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