At five o’clock in the morning we stopped at a posada for nearly an hour, and very refreshing it was to stretch one’s limbs and breathe the cool mountain air. The posada was an enormous rambling old place, but quiet and clean. The landlord showed us, with other travellers, into a room with a little fire, and very civilly promised us chocolate. There were two Englishmen among the rest who bitterly complained of the coupé. “Think of it,” they said, “we took the coupé to ourselves, and have had such horrid company all the way--a big, strong-smelling, dried tunny-fish!”
“Perhaps it will be taken out here,” I said, consolingly.
They shrugged their shoulders in a very low-spirited fashion and one replied despairingly,--
“It’s ticketed to Granada, so there’s no chance for us. Five hours longer of it! It’s enough to drive one mad.”
It was certainly enough to drive one into a very evil temper. The smell of salted tunny-fish is nearly as bad as anything in the way of smells can be, and reminds one of those odious combinations with which clever chemists once proposed to supersede shot and shell in driving away one’s enemies. The victims in this instance were very long-suffering, and seemed to forget their troubles in a cigarette. They, too, ordered chocolate, but, like ourselves, had to wait for it.
At the last moment, just as the diligence was ready to start, came cakes and chocolate, and after hastily swallowing a little of both, we entered our berlina. Here another amusing scene occurred. At the tail-end of the last moment, such packages as were addressed to Loja, the name of our halting-place, had to be brought from the roof to the diligence. Amongst others, was a light deal-box, which, by some mismanagement or other, fell with an awful crash into the gutter! Out came, as if by magic, all the paraphernalia of some poor little maiden’s wardrobe and belongings: mantilla, gloves, dresses, slippers, needle-work, chocolate-boxes, love-letters tied up with ribbon, missal, rosary,--all lay sucking up the mire in inextricable confusion. Driver, postilion, landlord, and gendarme, stood still, looking overwhelmed and hopeless. After some minutes the driver picked up a glove, the postilion a shoe, the landlord a love-letter, the gendarme a thimble. Then, as if by mutual consent, they slowly and patiently rescued the miry treasures, stopping now and then to sigh over the ruinous condition of each. It was a very humble little outfit, doubtless of some nursemaid or milliner’s apprentice, which made the accident all the more deplorable, and I daresay many of those muddy spots were washed out by tears alone. No one grumbled at the delay, and no one seemed to think that the reason of it was not a legitimate one. How unlike our English promptitude and bustle! It was quite touching to see the concern of the stately gendarme when he took up a neck-ribbon the beauty of which was gone for ever. “_La pobrecita! La pobrecita!_ (Poor little thing! poor little thing!) she’ll never be able to wear that again,” he ejaculated.