On returning to the “Poste Royale” I found two fresh lusty horses to our voiture—­but the postilion had sent a boy into the field to catch a third.  Wherefore was this?  The tarif exacted it.  A third horse “reciproquement pour l’annee”—­parce qu’il faut traverser une grande montagne avant d’arriver a Vire”—­was the explanatory reply.  It seemed perfectly ridiculous, as the vehicle was of such slender dimensions and weight.  However, I was forced to yield.  To scold the postboy was equally absurd and unavailing:  “parce que la tarif l’exigea.”  But the “montagne” was doubtless a reason for this additional horse:  and I began to imagine that something magnificently picturesque might be in store.  The three horses were put a-breast, and off we started with a phaeton-like velocity!  Certainly nothing could have a more ridiculous appearance than my pigmy voiture thus conveyed by three animals—­strong enough to have drawn the diligence.  I was not long in reaching this “huge mountain,” which provoked my unqualified laughter—­from its insignificant size—­and upon the top of which stands the town of VIRE.  It had been a fair-day; and groups of men and women, returning from the town, in their blue and crimson dresses, cheered somewhat the general gloom of the day, and lighted up the features of the landscape.  The nearer I approached, the more numerous and incessant were these groups.

Vire is a sort of Rouen in miniature—­if bustle and population be only considered.  In architectural comparison, it is miserably feeble and inferior.  The houses are generally built of granite, and look extremely sombre in consequence.  The old castle is yet interesting and commanding.  But of this presently.  I drove to the “Cheval Blanc,” and bespoke, as usual, a late dinner and beds.  The first visit was to the castle, but it is right that you should know, before hand, that the town of Vire, which contains a population of about ten thousand souls, stands upon a commanding eminence, in the midst of a very beautiful and picturesque country called the BOCAGE.  This country was, in former times, as fruitful in civil wars, horrors, and devastations, as the more celebrated Bocage of the more western part of France during the late Revolution.  In short, the Bocage of Normandy was the scene of bloodshed during the Calvinistic or Hugonot persecution.  It was in the vicinity of this town, in the parts through which I have travelled—­from Caen hitherwards—­that the hills and the dales rang with the feats of arms displayed in the alternate discomfiture and success of COLIGNY, CONDE, MONTMOGERY, and MATIGNON.[159]