THE CHATEAU I DID NOT RENT
In a former chapter I have mentioned the mighty natural portrait in
stone which Mark Twain found, and later named the Lost Napoleon, because
he could not remember its location, and how we rediscovered it from
Beauchastel on the Rhone, not far below Valence. We decided now that we
would have at least another glimpse of the great stone face, it being so
near. The skies had cleared this morning, though there was a good deal
of wind and the sun was not especially warm. But we said we would go. We
would be getting on toward the south, at any rate.
We did not descend on the Beauchastel side, there being a bridge shown
on the map, at La Voulte, where we would cross. The reader may also
remember the mention of a chateau below Beauchastel, with a sign on it
which said that the property was to let, and my failure to negotiate for
it. Very well, here is the sequel: When we got to the end of the bridge
opposite La Voulte, we looked across to one of the closely packed
mediaeval villages of France with a great castle rising from its central
height. It was one of the most picturesque things we had seen and I
stopped to photograph it, declaring we must certainly visit it. So we
crossed the bridge and at the end turned away toward Beauchastel,
deciding to visit La Voulte later.
We were back almost immediately. The day was not as clear as it looked
and the Lost Napoleon was veiled, behind a white horizon. Very likely it
would be better by morning, we said, so we dropped our belongings at the
tiny Beauchastel inn and made an afternoon excursion to the chateau.
Imagine my feelings when, on looking up from the road, I suddenly
discovered once more the big sign, "_Chateau A Louer._" It was our
chateau--the one I had formerly been discouraged from taking. It was
providence, I said, knocking a second time at our door.
The others had another view. They said unless I would promise not to
rent the premises I would not be permitted to examine them. I tried to
make better terms, but finally submitted. We drove up into the narrow,
ancient, cobbled streets a distance and left the car. Then we climbed.
It was a steep and tortuous way, winding around scary edges and through
doubtful-looking passages where, in weird holes and crannies, old and
crooked people lived and were doing what they had always done since time
began. I don't remember exactly how we finally made our way through
crumble and decay--such surroundings as I have often known in dreams--to
a grassy court where there was a semblance of genuine life. An old
caretaker was there and he agreed to show us through.
It was called _La Voulte sur Rhone_, he said, and gave its name to the
village. No one knew just when it had been begun, but some of it had
been there in the eleventh century, when it had belonged to Adon de
Clerieu. It had passed through many hands and had been more than once
reconstructed. At one time Guillaume de Fay held it; also Philippe IV
and Louis de Bourbon Conde, and the great family of De Rohan. Kings had
been entertained there, among them Louis XIII, an interesting fact, but
I wished they had given better accommodations than the rambling,
comfortless, and rather blind succession of boxes shown us as the royal
suite. I also objected to the paper on the walls until our guide
explained that it had been put there by an American tenant of the early
Andrew Johnson period. He told us then that the chateau had been
recently bought by a French author of two volumes of poetry, who was
restoring portions of it and had reserved a row of rooms along the high
terrace to let to other poets and kindred souls, so they might live side
by side and look out over the fair land of France and interchange their
fancies and dream long dreams. Standing on that lofty green vantage and
looking out across the river and the valley of the Rhone, I was tempted
to violate my treaty and live there forever after.
The only portion really restored, so far, is a large assembly room, now
used as a sort of museum. I hope the owner will reclaim, or at least
clean, some of the other rooms, and that he will not carry the work to
the point where atmosphere and romance seem to disappear. Also, I truly
hope he won't give up the notion of that row of poets along the
terrace, even if I can't be one of them; and I should like to slip up
there sometime and hear them all striking their harps in unison and
lifting a memnonic voice to the sunrise.