A third and still more noteworthy point is the infrequency--absence, I
am inclined to say--of cabarets. Soberest of the sober, orderliest of
the orderly, appear these good folks of La Charite, les Caritates as
they are called, nor, apparently, has tradition demoralised them. One
might expect that a town dedicated to the virtue of almsgiving would
abound in beggars. Not one did we see.




CHAPTER X.


POUGUES.

If an ugly name could kill a place, Pougues must surely have been ruined
as a health resort centuries ago. Coming, too, after that soothing,
harmoniously named La Charite, could any configuration of letters grate
more harshly on the ear? Truth to tell, my travelling companion and
myself had a friendly little altercation about Pougues. It seemed
impossible to believe pleasant things of a town so labelled. But the
reputation of Pougues dates from Hercules and Julius Caesar, both
heroes, it is said, having had recourse to its mineral springs! Coming
from legend to history, we find that Pougues, or, at least, the waters
of Pougues, were patronised by the least objectionable son of Catherine
de Medicis, Henri II. of France and runaway King of Poland. Imputing his
disorders to sorcery, he was thus reassured by a sensible physician
named Pidoux: "Sire, the malady from which you suffer is due to no
witchcraft. Lead a quiet life for ten weeks, and drink the water of
Pougues." The best king France ever had, namely, the gay Gascon, and