While writing these pages upon the old creeds and customs of rustic Burgundy, I have felt strongly, as a foreigner, my inefficiency for such a task, and have wished that I could hand over my pen to the Burgundian poet, my friend, M. François Fertiault, by whose kind permission I am able to make use of so much material that is his, and to whom any merit there may be in this chapter is wholly due. Had his still firm and active, though aged hand, taken up my task, my readers would well have been able to say, as the peasants of Burgundy, with one voice, have said of his work: "Yé ben vrâ qu' tout c'qui s'passe cheu nous." FOOTNOTES: [191] "L'Histoire d'un Chant Populaire." F. Fertiault. [192] Abel Jeandet, in the Feuilleton de Paris, March 1851, records several historical instances of the discovery of gold in the sands of Doubs. [193] "Good morning, Mars. How are you Mars? Show me in my sleep him I am to have in my waking life." This is an interesting poetical relic of pagan worship. [194] "Le Premier de Mars" by F. Fertiault, published in the Feuilleton de Paris. [195] "En Bourgogne." [196] A national dish of fresh-water fish cooked in white wine and seasoned with garlic and aromatic herbs. It is not unlike the provençal bouillabaisse. [197] "La Patois Bourguignon" A. Perrault-Dabot. [Illustration: Heading, chapter XIX; Nantua and the Lake] CHAPTER XIX A LAKE IN THE JURA When the train from Bourg had left the valley, and commenced its mountainous passage across the Jura, en route for Nantua, we felt that, historically, if not geographically, we were leaving Burgundy for an intermediate land that, while ceasing to be France, was not quite Switzerland. Yet, for all that, the journey is worth making, for the sake of the loveliness of the hills, and the links it forms in your mind between what you have left, and the regions of lake and mountain that once formed part of the old Kingdom of Burgundy. The passage of the viaduct over the Suran soon reconciles you to the Cimmerian darkness of Jura tunnels. Hundreds of feet below winds the blue river mackerel-backed, beside terraced lawns of rich, green grass, between banks of dark fir-wood, through which silvery, snowy waterfalls come swirling and splashing down to the valley stream. Almost equally beautiful is the crossing of the Ain that follows. At length, after some fifty kilometres of charming surprises, you leave La Cluse and jog onward, until the bend of the line shows you the red roofs and white church-tower of the little town of Nantua reflected in the dark waters of the placid lake, ringed round with upland meadows, and steep, fir-clad hills.