On a sudden that veil lifts; and five-and-twenty miles away, beneath
the black edge of the cloud, against the clear blue sky, stands out
the whole snow-range of the Pyrenees; and in the midst, exactly
opposite, filling up a vast gap which is the Val d'Ossau, the huge
cone, still snowy white, of the Pic du Midi.
He who is conversant with theatres will be unable to overlook the
seeming art--and even artifice--of such an effect. The clouds lift
like a drop-scene; the mountains are so utterly unlike any natural
object in the north, that for the moment one fancies them painted and
not real; the Pic du Midi stands so exactly where it ought, and is
yet so fantastic and unexpected in its shape, that an artist seems to
have put it there.
But lie who knows nothing, and cares less, about theatres and their
sham glories, and sees for the first time in his life the eternal
snows of which he has read since childhood, draws his breath deeply,
and stands astounded, whispering to himself that God is great.
One hint more, ere we pass on from Pau.
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