The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 01Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 01
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
The wind fell during dinner, and the sky remained clear; so it was under
better auspices that I loaded Modestine before the monastery gate. My
Irish friend accompanied me so far on the way. As we came through the
wood, there was Pere Apollinaire hauling his barrow; and he too quitted
his labours to go with me for perhaps a hundred yards, holding my hand
between both of his in front of him. I parted first from one and then
from the other with unfeigned regret, but yet with the glee of the
traveller who shakes off the dust of one stage before hurrying forth
upon another. Then Modestine and I mounted the course of the Allier,
which here led us back into Gevaudan towards its sources in the forest
of Mercoire. It was but an inconsiderable burn before we left its
guidance. Thence, over a hill, our way lay through a naked plateau,
until we reached Chasserades at sundown.
The company in the inn kitchen that night were all men employed in
survey for one of the projected railways. They were intelligent and
conversible, and we decided the future of France over hot wine, until
the state of the clock frightened us to rest. There were four beds in
the little upstairs room; and we slept six. But I had a bed to myself,
and persuaded them to leave the window open.
"_He, bourgeois; il est cinq heures!_" was the cry that wakened me in
the morning (Saturday, September 28th). The room was full of a
transparent darkness, which dimly showed me the other three beds and the
five different nightcaps on the pillows. But out of the window the dawn
was growing ruddy in a long belt over the hill-tops, and day was about
to flood the plateau. The hour was inspiriting; and there seemed a
promise of calm weather, which was perfectly fulfilled. I was soon
under way with Modestine. The road lay for a while over the plateau, and
then descended through a precipitous village into the valley of the
Chassezac. This stream ran among green meadows, well hidden from the
world by its steep banks; the broom was in flower, and here and there
was a hamlet sending up its smoke.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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