Along France's river of romance: . le seven hundred feet below, begins, a tinytrickle, the longest river in France. ... The chalet at the base of the mountain, as I had beenwarned, was not yet open, and being exhausted throughwant of food, I called at the farm just below it, whichis known as the Ferme de la Loire —my heartbeating rather quickly now that I had at last reached theobject of my journey. I found the farmer swilling outhis dark, cavernous ecurie with water that poured coldand sparkling from a wooden pipe that he held in hishand, but he received me hospitably, and led methrough into
Along France's river of romance: . le seven hundred feet below, begins, a tinytrickle, the longest river in France. ... The chalet at the base of the mountain, as I had beenwarned, was not yet open, and being exhausted throughwant of food, I called at the farm just below it, whichis known as the Ferme de la Loire —my heartbeating rather quickly now that I had at last reached theobject of my journey. I found the farmer swilling outhis dark, cavernous ecurie with water that poured coldand sparkling from a wooden pipe that he held in hishand, but he received me hospitably, and led methrough into an even darker kitchen and living-room,where an old, motionless woman was sitting, with closedeyes, at the table. While I was refreshing myself withsome cheese, black bread, and sour red wine, the farmertold me b-js,news. It had been so bitterly cold not more 22 THE LOIRE than seven days ago, that to have gone out would havemeant almost certain death ! (Not till then did Irealise what it meant to live at an altitude of over 4500. The Source feet.) I w^as the first, he told me, to visit the mountainin 1911. But, unable any longer to conceal my impatience to THE SOURCE 23 hear about the Loire, I asked him eagerly how far awaywas the source, explaining to him that I had comespecially from Le Puy to see it. With an unexpecteddramatic sense, with a touch of awe almost, he pointedto where the water could be heard gurgling out of thepipe which he had dropped : There, he said, youhave it in my stable. That is the veritable source ofthe Loire ! It was an emotional moment. We stood up. Iwondered whether a toast of some kind should be drunk,and not knowing exactly what to do, I walked outand examined the baby river that was to grow so huge(and in the winter such a terrible monster), as it woundits seven hundred miles through the heart of France tothe sea. To the sea ! Suddenly the idea came to me,and pouring the refreshing water over my hands andface, I registered a little vow that I wo
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