Yet the day before I had enjoyed perfect summer weather in the Jardin
d'Acclimitation. Invariableness is no more an attribute of the French
climate than our own. Wherever we go we must take a change of dress, for
all the world as if we were bound for the other side of the Tweed.

My first Sunday at Bourron, on this third visit, was of perfect
stillness, unclouded brilliance and southern languor, heralding, so we
fondly imagined, the very morrow for an excursion.

In the night a strong wind rose up, but as we had ordered a carriage for
Larchant, and as carriages in these parts are not always to be had, as,
moreover, grown folks no more than children like to defer their
pleasure, off we set, two of the party on cycles forming a body guard.
There seemed no likelihood of rain and in the forest we should not feel
the wind.

For the first mile or two all went well. Far ahead of us our cyclists
bowled gaily along in the forest avenues, all of us being sheltered from
the wind. It was not till we skirted a wide opening that we felt the
full force of the tornado, soon overtaking our blowzed, dishevelled
companions, both on foot and looking miserable enough.

We re-entered the forest, and a little later, emerging from the fragrant
depths of a pine wood, got our first view of Larchant, coming suddenly
upon what looks like a cathedral towering above the plain, at its base a
clustering village, whitewashed brown-roofed houses amid vineyards and
orchards.

[Illustration]