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IV.

Some of us have planned a return to Eaux Chaudes for the day.  One of its characteristic excursions we have not yet taken; the strange village of Goust is unvisited.  This hamlet, situated on a mountain-side near Eaux Chaudes, is described by M. Moreau as “a species of principality, tiny but self-governing, similar to certain duchies of the confederation without their budget and civil list,” a box within a box, it would appear,—­a spot independent of its Valley of Ossau, as Ossau was of Bearn, and Bearn of France.  It has lived always in the most utter aloofness from the world’s affairs; it still so lives to-day.  It is noteworthy too for its old people; Henry IV granted to one of them, born in 1442, a life pension which, it is credibly recorded, was not extinguished until 1605.

We have a strong curiosity to visit this unique settlement, solitary, indifferent to time and its new ways, Nature’s “children lost in the clouds.”  So I gladden one of the anxious liverymen with an order, and soon a comfortable carriage is taking us back down the hills toward Laruns.  We can dwell this morning on the view of that village and its green basin, as we glide down along the side of the valley with the distant specks of houses always in front.  We dwell too with more comprehension on the heights and depths of the Eaux Chaudes ravine, as we turn the foot of the V and pull steadily upward and inward again.  There is Madame Baudot at the doorway, hearing the distant wheels, ready to welcome us with all her heart; there appear her daughter, Madame Julie, and the rubicund serving-woman; and even the square, white cap of the chef bobs up and down behind them, within the hall.

The carriage is moored, the horses are unshipped, wraps and overcoats speedily unladen and left in bond.  The good women promise us the best of lunches on our return, and we are fairly afoot down the road toward the Bridge of Hell,—­hearts and highway equally paved with good intentions.  The sun is full but not oppressive, a breeze is stirring, and there is a flood of vitality, a buoyancy and light-heartedness, about these bright mountain mornings, as one strides on, “breathing the free air of unpunctuality,” which animates to high deeds and heroic resolve.

* * * * *

The deed now in prospect is high, but not superlatively heroic.  The hamlet we seek is stowed away upon the mountain-side across the ravine from Eaux Chaudes, 3000 feet above the sea, and will require a climb of perhaps three-quarters of an hour.  We cross the diabolic Bridge,—­"facilis ascensus,”

  “The gates of Hell are open night and day,
  Smooth the ascent and easy is the way,”—­