mountains this can rarely be done. The hills do not stand thickly
together so as to group themselves; the passes from one valley to
another, though not wanting in altitude, are not close pressed
together with overhanging rocks, and are deficient in grandeur as
well as loveliness. And then, as a natural consequence of all this,
the hotels--are not quite as good as they should be.

But there is one mountain among them which can claim to rank with the
Pic du Midi or the Maledetta. No one can pooh-pooh the stern old
Canigou, standing high and solitary, solemn and grand, between the
two roads which run from Perpignan into Spain, the one by Prades and
the other by Le Boulon. Under the Canigou, towards the west, lie the
hot baths of Vernet, in a close secluded valley, which, as I have
said before, is, as far as I know, the sweetest spot in these Eastern
Pyrenees.

The frequenters of these baths were a few years back gathered almost
entirely from towns not very far distant, from Perpignan, Narbonne,
Carcassonne, and Bezieres, and the baths were not therefore famous,
expensive, or luxurious; but those who believed in them believed with
great faith; and it was certainly the fact that men and women who
went thither worn with toil, sick with excesses, and nervous through
over-care, came back fresh and strong, fit once more to attack the
world with all its woes. Their character in latter days does not
seem to have changed, though their circle of admirers may perhaps be
somewhat extended.

In those days, by far the most noted and illustrious person in the
village of Vernet was La Mere Bauche. That there had once been a
Pere Bauche was known to the world, for there was a Fils Bauche who