grudge-bearing Bolsheviki, it was the Cévennes, those little-known
hills in the south of France, well inland from the sea.




II

ONE WALKS


A little place called Le Monastier, in a pleasant highland valley
fifteen miles from Le Puy ... notable for the making of lace, for
drunkenness, for freedom of language, and for unparalleled political
dissension was Mr. Stevenson's point of departure on his Travels with a
Donkey. Monsieur Duchemin made it his as well; and on the fourth
morning of his hegira from England set out from Le Monastier afoot, a
volume of Montaigne in his pocket, a stout stick in his fist--the fat
rucksack strapped to his shoulders enabling this latter-day traveller
to dispense with the society of another donkey.

The weather was fine, his heart high, he was happy to be out of harness
and again his own man. More than once he laughed a little to think of
the vain question of his whereabouts which was being mooted in the
underworld of Europe, where (as well he knew) men and women spat when
they named him. For his route from the Channel coast to Le Monastier
had been sufficiently discreet and devious to persuade him that his
escape had been as cleanly executed as it was timely instigated.

Thus for upwards of a fortnight he fared southward in the footsteps of