Down the macadamized slopes we thundered at a prodigious pace; up the
hills we trotted with six horses, three abreast; madly through the
little towns we burst, like a whirlwind, crashing across the pebbled
streets, and out upon the broad, smooth road again. Before we had well
considered the fact that we were out of Lyons, we stopped to change
horses. Done in a jiffy; and whoop, crick, crack, whack, rumble, bump,
whirr, whisk, away we blazed, till, ere we knew it, another change,
and another.
"Really, H.," said I, "this is not slow. The fact is, we are going
ahead. _I_ call this travelling--never was so comfortable in my
life."
"Nor I," quoth she. "And, besides, we are unwinding the Rhone all
along."
And, sure enough, we were; ever and anon getting a glimpse of him
spread mazily all abroad in some beautiful vale, like a midguard
anaconda done in silver.
At Nantua, a sordid town, with a squalid inn, we dined, at two,
deliciously, on a red shrimp soup; no, not soup, it was a
_potage_; no, a stew; no, a creamy, unctuous mess, muss, or
whatever you please to call it. Sancho Panza never ate his olla
podrida with more relish.
Pages:
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272