How we Fought the Wind from Montargis to Cosne
From Montargis to Cosne we fought a mighty wind. The greater part of the day our heads were down, and we were working as one never works except for pleasure.—Under these circumstances we saw little of the country through which we passed. We were just conscious of the tramps we had seen the day before, now resting by the roadside; and of a blue blouse on an old boneshaker flying triumphantly with the wind down a long hill up which we were painfully toiling.
The long day was marked only by our halts for rest. At the first town, but ten kilometres from Montargis, we stopped nominally for syrup, but really to take breath. As we drank the groseille, which was bad, the proprietress of the café told us what we should have seen in Montargis.——
Bah! the château, that was nothing. But hold!
the brand-new caoutchouc factory; there was something.
—An hour later we dismounted again, to pick blackberries from the hedge. And then we went doggedly on, pedalling away until we reached the next village, many kilometres beyond. There was just outside a pretty, shady road, which we remember gratefully, since on it we had our first bit of easy riding. Adjoining was a château with high walls, over which came the sound of gay music.——
To whom did it belong? we asked an old woman on the road.
“To a Monsieur who is enormously rich,” she said. “Mais, tout le même”—“But, all the same”—“he is bourgeois!”
The village was just beyond, and in its inn we had lunch.—While we were eating, bang went a drum on the street, and a bell began to ring. It was a pedler, who had drawn up his cart. When we strolled out to the street he had collected quite a crowd.
“Look at these,” he was saying, as he showed a package of flannels; “in the town the price is three francs. I ask thirty-five sous. I pray you, ladies, do me the favour to feel them. Are they not soft? But this is the last package I have. And now, all those who want a pair, hold up their hands.”
—There was a scramble; more hands than could be filled were raised; his assistant took down the names of the buyers, and then—the pedler produced just such another package from his cart.——
“Nom de Dieu! what longness!” he cried, as he held up a specimen in front of the nearest woman.
—At this every one laughed.——
“But, my children”—mes enfants, that is what he called them—“we are not here to amuse ourselves.”
—And so the sale went on. Every article exhibited was the last of the kind until it was sold. He knew them in this country here, this prince of pedlers told them. They did not like to buy dear.—When we turned away he had just sold a piece of corduroy—town price, twelve francs; pedler’s price, five francs fifty—to an old man who went off grinning, his prize under his arms.
—The villagers were all talking together, but above their voices we heard that of the pedler, loud and reproachful.——
“Que vous êtes bavards ici!”
—Reluctantly we returned to work. The wind was in no friendlier mood, and we rode, as in the morning, with heads down and thoughts fixed upon the pedals.—At Briare—you may despatch it in a word: ’tis an uninteresting town!—we had our first view of the Loire. For the rest of the day the river was always on our right; sometimes far off, and only indicated by its rows of tall trees; sometimes near, a line of grey or silver, as the wind drove the clouds above or beyond it.—We met the Café of the Sun, travelling on wheels.
We were some little time in Bonny. Every one came out to watch J——, as he opened his sketch-book, and in a minute we were surrounded.
“Is Monsieur making plans for houses?” asked one old woman.
—But the event of the day was in Neuvy. There we found a great crowd in the narrow street, and in the midst stood a tricycle. A Frenchman in flannel shirt, grey linen, and gaiters, with a handkerchief hanging from his hat over his neck, at once made his way through the crowd and came towards us.—At last we were to have a proof of the freemasonry of the wheel. But he introduced himself with a circular, and was friendly in the interests of the manufacturers for whom he travelled. He did not think much of the “Humber;” its wheels were so small. He knew all the English makes, because he had an English brother-in-law who lived in Portsmouth. Look at his machine, now; it had a wheel of a pretty height.
We must try it, as he was sure we should once we read the circular, and give up the “Humber.”
Our tandem, with its symmetrical parts and modest coat of varnish well covered with mud, was indeed insignificant compared with the nickel-plated glory of his three wheels, no two of which were of the same size, the largest being as tall as a bicycle.A At all events the people of Neuvy, most of whom were armed with circulars, thought so. They looked at us, because a meeting of tricyclers was not an everyday occurrence in their town, but we gathered no crowd of admirers.——
“How many kilometres do you make in a day?” asked the Frenchman.
J—— said that we had left Montargis, and were going on to Cosne—seventy kilometres in all.
“Seventy kilometres! It is too much for Madame,” said the Frenchman, with a bow.
—In my heart I was of the same opinion. But I declared the ride to be a mere nothing, and almost apologised for not making it longer.
He rejoiced in the exercise, he declared with enthusiasm. It was a little fatiguing sometimes, but what would you have? And it seemed that his love for the sport occasionally carried him to the excess of thirty kilometres in a day. At La Charité, between Cosne and Moulins, he had met two Englishmen who were riding safety bicycles with an interpreter. We asked him if he had ever ridden in England. He said No; French roads were so good, and French country so beautiful.——
“Ah, Madame”—with his hand on his heart of course—“I adore the France!”
—Then we shook hands, to the visible delight of the lookers-on, and, with another bow, he told us we had nothing but great beauty from Neuvy to Cosne, a distance of fifteen kilometres.—The whole town watched our start, and, I think, in our shabbiness we must have served the agent’s purpose even better than his circular.
As we wheeled on we saw his tracks, making a zig-zag course along the road, with little credit to his steering. And in front of a lonely farm-house a small boy at our coming drew a long sigh.——
“But here is another!” he called to some one indoors.
—The country really was beautiful. But I was so tired! Every turn of the pedals I felt must be the last. And the thought that we should reach Cosne but to begin the same battle on the morrow, did not help to keep up my spirits. In vain I tried to be sentimental. For the hundredth time I admitted to myself that sentiment might do for a post-chaise, but was impossible on a tricycle.—And all the time J—— kept telling me that if I did not do my share of the work I should kill him. Certainly seventy kilometres against the wind were too much for Madame.