Accordingly, having had an itinerary written
out for us by friends who had gone over every inch of the ground, mostly
on foot, I set off with an enterprising lady, a native of these parts,
for a few days' drive in the most romantic scenery of the Doubs,
southward of Montbeliard, and in the direction of Switzerland. So well
is the road marked out for us that we want neither "Joanne" nor
"Murray," and we have, moreover, procured the services of a coachman who
has been familiarized with the country by thirty years' experience. Thus
far, therefore, we have nothing to desire but fine weather, which has
been very rare since my arrival; tempests, showers, and downpours being
the order of the day. However, choosing one morning of unusual promise,
we start off at seven o'clock, prepared for the best or the worst; a
description of the superb pine-forests and romantic valleys of the Doubs
being reserved for the next chapter.
CHAPTER V.
ST. HIPPOLYTE, MORTEAU, AND THE SWISS BORDERLAND.
I never understood, till I travelled with French friends, why hotels in
France should be so bad, but the reason is to be sought in that
amiability, _laisser faire_, call it by what name we will, that
characteristic which distinguishes our neighbours on the other side of
La Manche.
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