itself, for within a few miles are the famous chateaus which have been
exploited by literary travelers of all degrees. But it has lost none of
its charm on that account and perhaps every writer has presented to some
extent a different viewpoint of its beauty and romance. Touraine is
quite unlike any other part of France; its vistas of grayish-green
levels, diversified with slim shimmering poplars and flashes of its
broad lazy rivers, are quite unique and characteristic. And when such a
landscape is dotted with an array of splendid historic palaces such as
Blois, Amboise, Chinon, Chaumont and Chenonceaux, it assuredly reaches
the height of romantic interest. All of these, it is true, are not
within the exact political limits of Touraine, but all are within easy
reach of Tours.
We make Chenonceaux our objective for the afternoon. It lies a little
more than twenty miles east of Tours and the road follows the course of
the Cher almost the whole distance. The palace stands directly above the
river, supported on massive arches which rest on piles in the bed of the
stream. A narrow drawbridge at either end cuts the entrances from the
shore, though these bridges were never intended as a means of defense.
Chenonceaux was in no sense a military fortress--its memories are of
love and jealousy and not of war or assassination. It was built early in
the sixteenth century by a receiver of taxes to King Francis, but so
much of the public funds went into the work that its projector died in
disgrace and his son atoned as best he could by turning the chateau over
to the king.
[Illustration: CHENONCEAUX--THE ORIENTAL FRONT]
And here, in the heart of old France, we come upon another memory of
Mary Stuart, for here, with Francis II., she spent her honeymoon--if,
indeed, we may style her short loveless marriage a honeymoon--coming
direct from Amboise, where she had unwillingly witnessed the awful
scenes of the massacre of the Huguenots. What must have been the
reveries of the girl-queen at Chenonceaux! In a foreign land, surrounded
by a wicked, intriguing court, with scenes of bloodshed and death on
every hand and wedded to a hopeless imbecile, foredoomed to early
death--surely even the strange beauty of the river palace could not have
driven these terrible ghosts from her mind.
Chenonceaux has many memories of love and intrigue, for here in 1546
Francis I. and his mistress, the famous Diane of Poitiers, gave a great
hunting party; but the heir-apparent, Prince Henry, soon gained the
affections of the fair Diane and on his accession to the throne
presented her with the chateau, to which she had taken a great fancy.
She it was who built the bridgelike hall connecting the castle with the
south bank of the river and she otherwise improved the palace and
grounds; but on the death of the king, twelve years later, the
queen--the terrible Catherine de Medici--compelled Diane to give up
Chenonceaux and to betake herself to the older and less attractive
Chaumont. The chateau escaped serious injury during the fiery period of
the Revolution, but the insurrectionists compelled the then owner,
Madame Dupin, to surrender her securities, furniture, priceless
paintings and objects of art--the collection of nearly three
centuries--and all were destroyed in a bonfire.
Chenonceaux is now the property of a wealthy Cuban who has spent a
fortune in its restoration and improving the grounds, which accounts for
the trim, new appearance of the place. The great avenue leading from the
public entrance passes through formal gardens brilliant with flowers and
beautified with rare shrubbery and majestic trees. It is a pleasant and
romantic place and the considerateness of the owner in opening it to
visitors for a trifling fee deserves commendation.
[Illustration: AMBOISE FROM ACROSS THE LOIRE]
Quite different are the memories of Amboise, the vast, acropolislike
pile which towers over the Loire some dozen miles beyond Tours and which
we reach early the next day after a delightful run along the broad
river. We have kept to the north bank and cross the river into the
little village, from which a steep ascent leads to the chateau. The
present structure is largely the result of modern restoration, the huge
round tower being about all that remains of the ancient castle. This
contains a circular inclined plane, up which Emperor Charles V. of the
Holy Roman Empire rode on horseback when he visited Francis I. in 1539,
and it is possible for a medium-sized automobile to make the ascent
to-day.
Amboise is chiefly remembered for the awful deeds of Catherine de
Medici, who from the balcony overlooking the town watched the massacre,
which she personally directed, of twelve hundred Huguenots. With her
were the young king, Francis II., and his bride, Mary Stuart, who were
compelled to witness the series of horrible executions which were
carried out in the presence of the court. The leaders were hung from the
iron balconies and others were murdered in the courtyard. They met their
fate with stern religious enthusiasm, singing, it is recorded, until
death silenced their voices. The direct cause of the massacre was the
discovery of a plot on the part of the Huguenot leaders to abduct the
young king in order to get him from under the evil influence of his
mother.
The chateau contains a tomb that alone should make it the shrine of
innumerable pilgrims, for here is buried that many-sided genius,
Leonardo da Vinci, who died in Amboise in 1519 and whom many authorities
regard as the most remarkable man the human race has yet produced.
But enough of horrors and tombs; we go out on the balcony, where the old
tigress stood in that far-off day, and contemplate the enchanting scene
that lies beneath us. Out beyond the blue river a wide peaceful plain
stretches to the purple hills in the far distance; just below are the
gray roofs of the town and there are glorious vistas up and down the
broad stream. This is the memory we should prefer to carry away with us,
rather than that of the murderous deeds of Catherine de Medici!
On arriving at Blois, twenty miles farther down the river road, thoughts
of belated luncheon first engage our minds and the Hotel de Angleterre
sounds good, looks good, and proves good, indeed. Its dining-room is a
glass-enclosed balcony overhanging the river, which adds a picturesque
view to a very excellent meal. The chateau, a vast quadrangular pile
surrounding a great court, is but a short distance from the hotel. Only
the historic apartments are shown--quite enough, since several hours
would be required to make a complete round of the enormous edifice. The
castle has passed into the hands of the government and is being
carefully restored. It is planned to make it a great museum of art and
history and several rooms already contain an important collection. The
palace was built at different periods, from the thirteenth to the
seventeenth centuries, and was originally a nobleman's home, but later a
residence of the kings of France.
[Illustration: GRAND STAIRWAY OF FRANCIS I. AT BLOIS]
Inside the court our attention is attracted by the elaborate decorations
and carvings of the walls. On one side is a long open gallery supported
by richly wrought columns; but most marvelous is the great winding
stairway projecting from the wall and open on the inner side. Every inch
of this structure--its balconies, its pillars and its huge central
column--is wrought over with beautiful images and strange devices, among
which the salamander of Francis I. is most noticeable. When we have
admired the details of the court to our satisfaction, the guide conducts
us through a labyrinth of gorgeously decorated rooms with many
magnificent fireplaces and mantels but otherwise quite unfurnished. The
apartments of the crafty and cruel Catherine de Medici are especially
noteworthy, one of them--her study--having no fewer than one hundred and
fifty carved panels which conceal secret crypts and hiding-places. These
range from small boxes--evidently for jewels or papers--to a closet
large enough for one to hide in.
The overshadowing tragic event of Blois--there were a host of minor
ones--was the assassination of the Duke of Guise in 1588. Henry III., a
weak and vacillating king, was completely dominated by this powerful
nobleman, whose fanatical religious zeal led him to establish a league
to restore the supremacy of the Catholic religion. The king was forced
to proclaim the duke lieutenant-general of the kingdom and to pledge
himself to extirpate the heretics; but despite his outward compliance
Henry was resolved on vengeance. According to the ideas of the times an
objectionable courtier could best be removed by assassination and this
the king determined upon. He piously ordered two court priests to pray
for the success of his plan and summoned the duke to his presence. Guise
was standing before the fire in the great dining-room and though he
doubtless suspected his royal master's kind intentions toward him,
walked into the next room, where nine of the king's henchmen awaited
him. They offered no immediate violence, but followed him into the
corridor, where they at once drew swords and fell upon him. Even against
such odds the duke, who was a powerful man, made a strong resistance and
though repeatedly stabbed, fought his way to the king's room, where he
fell at the foot of the royal bed. Henry, when assured that his enemy
was really dead, came trembling out of the adjoining room and kicking
the corpse, exclaimed, "How big he is; bigger dead than alive!" The next
morning the duke's brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine, was also murdered
in the castle as he was hastening to obey a summons from the king.
There is little suggestion of such horrors in the polished floors and
gilded walls that surround us today as we hear the Captain translate the
gruesome details from the guide's voluble sentences. We listen only
perfunctorily; it all seems unreasonable and unreal as the sun, breaking
from the clouds that have prevailed much of the day, floods the great
apartments with light. We have not followed this tale of blood and
treachery closely; it is only another reminder that cruelty and
inhumanity were very common a few centuries ago.
There is a minor cathedral in Blois, but the most interesting church is
St. Nicholas, formerly a part of the abbey and dating from 1138. Its
handsome facade with twin towers is the product of recent restoration.
There are also many quaint timbered houses in Blois, dating from the
fifteenth century and later, but we pay little attention to them. I
hardly know why our enthusiasm for old French houses is so limited,
considering how eagerly we sought such bits of antiquity in England.
We pursue the river road the rest of the day, though in places it swings
several miles from the Loire--or does the Loire swing from the road,
which seems arrow-straight everywhere?--and cuts across some lovely
rural country. Fields of grain, just beginning to ripen, predominate and
there are also green meadows and patches of carmine clover. Crimson
poppies and blue cornflowers gleam among the wheat, lending a touch of
brilliant color to the billowy fields.
The village of Beaugency, which we passed about midway between Tours and
Orleans, is one that will arrest the attention of the casual passerby.
It is more reminiscent of the castellated small town of England than one
often finds in France. It is overshadowed by a huge Norman keep with
sheltered, ivy-grown parapets, the sole remaining portion of an
eleventh-century castle. The remainder of the present castle was built
as a stronghold against the English, only to be taken by them shortly
after its completion. The invaders, however, were driven out by the
French army under Joan of Arc in 1429. The bridge at Beaugency is the
oldest on the Loire, having spanned the river since the thirteenth
century. The town has stood several sieges and was the scene of terrible
excesses in the religious wars of the sixteenth century, the abbey
having been burned by the Protestants in 1567.
Towards evening we again come to the river bank and ere long the towers
of Orleans break on our view. Despite its great antiquity the city
appears quite modern, for it has been so rebuilt that but few of its
ancient landmarks remain. Even the cathedral is a modern
restoration--almost in toto--and there is scarcely a complete building
in the town antedating 1500. The main streets are broad and well-paved
and electric trams run on many of them. Our hotel, the Grand Aignan, is
rather old-fashioned and somewhat dingy, but it is clean and comfortable
and its rates are not exorbitant. There is a modern and more fashionable
hotel in the city, but we have learned that second-class inns in cities
of medium size are often good and much easier on one's purse.
Our first thought, when we begin our after-dinner ramble, is that
Orleans should change its name to Jeanne d'Arcville. I know of no other
instance where a city of seventy thousand people is so completely
dominated by a single name. The statues, the streets, the galleries,
museums, churches and shops--all remind one of the immortal Maid who
made her first triumphal entry into Orleans in 1429, when the city was
hard pressed by the English besiegers. Every postcard and souvenir urged
upon the visitor has something to do with the patron saint of the town
and, after a little, one falls in with the spirit of the place,
rejoicing that the memories of Orleans are only of success and triumph
and forgetting Rouen's dark chapter of defeat and death.
In the morning we first go to the cathedral--an ornate and imposing
church, though one that the critics have dealt with rather roughly. It
faces the wide Rue Jeanne d'Arc--again Orleans' charmed name--and it
seems to us that the whole vast structure might well be styled a
memorial to the immortal Maid of France. The facade is remarkable for
its Late-Gothic towers, nearly three hundred feet high, while between
them to the rear rises the central spire, some fifty feet higher. There
are three great portals beneath massive arches, rising perhaps
one-fourth the height of the towers, and above each of these is an
immense rose window. Perhaps the design as a whole is not according to
the best architectural tenets, but the cathedral seems grand to such
unsophisticated critics as ourselves. Being a rather late restoration,
it does not show the wear and tear of the ages, like so many of its
ancient rivals, and perhaps loses a little charm on this account. The
vast vaultlike interior is quite free from obstructions to one's vision
and is lighted by windows of beautifully toned modern glass. These
depict scenes in the life of Joan of Arc, beginning with the appearance
of her heavenly monitors and ending with her martyrdom at the stake. The
designing is of remarkably high order and the color toning is much more
effective than one often finds in modern glass. There are a number of
paintings and images, many of them referring to the career of the now
venerated Maid. The usual gaudy chapels and altars of French cathedrals
are in evidence, though none are especially interesting.
Orleans has several other churches and all pay some tribute to the
heroine of the town. A small part of St. Peter's dates from the ninth
century, one of the few relics of antiquity to be found in Orleans. The
Hotel de Ville, built about 1530, has a beautiful marble figure of Joan
in the court, and an equestrian statue of the Maid is in the Grand Salon
of the building, representing her horse in the act of trampling a
mortally wounded Englishman. Both of these statues are the work of
Princess Marie of Orleans--a scion of the old royal family of France.
The Hotel de Ville also recalls a memory of Mary Stuart; here in 1560
her boy-husband, Francis II., expired in the arms of his wife, and her
career was soon transferred from the French court to its no less
troubled and cruel contemporary in Scotland. The town possesses an
unusually good museum, which includes a large historical collection, and
the gallery contains a number of paintings and sculptures of real merit.
Of course one will wish to see the house where the patron saint of the
town lodged, and this may be found at No. 37 Rue de Tabour. There is
also on the same street the Musee Jeanne d'Arc, which contains a number
of relics and paintings relating to the heroine and her times.
But for all the worship of Joan of Arc in Orleans, she was not a native
of the place and actually spent only a short time within the walls of
the old city. The Maid was born in the little village of Domremy in
Lorraine, some two hundred miles eastward, where her humble birthplace
may still be seen and which we hope to visit when we make our next
incursion into France.
III
ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER
We have no more delightful run in France than our easy jaunt from
Orleans to Nevers. We still follow the Loire Valley, though the road
only occasionally brings us in sight of the somewhat diminished river.
The distance is but ninety-six miles over the most perfect of roads and
we proceed leisurely, often pausing to admire the landscapes--beautiful
beyond any ability of mine to adequately describe. The roadside
resembles a well-kept lawn; it is bordered by endless rows of majestic
trees and on either hand are fertile fields which show every evidence of
the careful work of the farmer. The silken sheen of bearded wheat and
rye is dotted with crimson poppies and starred with pale-blue
cornflowers. At times the poppies have gained the mastery and burn like
a spot of flame amidst the emerald-green of the fields. Patches of
dark-red clover lend another color variation, and here and there are
dashes of bright yellow or gleaming white of buttercups and daisies.
With such surroundings and on such a clear, exhilarating day our
preconceived ideals of the beauty of Summer France suffer no
disenchantment.
Cosne is an old river town now rather dominated by manufactories and
here Pope Pius VII. sojourned when he came to France upon the neighborly
invitation of Napoleon I. He stopped at the Hotel du Cerf, but we try
the Moderne for luncheon, which proves unusually good.
About three o'clock we reach Nevers and a sudden thunder shower
determines us to stop for the night at the Hotel de France. Outside it
is quite unpretending, though queer ornamental panels between the
windows and a roof of moss-green tiles redeem it somewhat from the
commonplace. We have no reason to repent our decision, for the rambling
old inn is scrupulously clean and the service has the personal touch
that indicates the watchful eye of a managing proprietor. We are
somewhat surprised to see a white-clad chef very much in evidence about
the hotel and even taking a lively interest in guests who have suffered
a break-down and are wrestling with their car in the stable-yard garage.
We learn that this chef is the proprietor, and his wife, an English
woman, is the manageress. The combination is an effective one;
English-speaking guests are made very much at home and the excellence of
the meals is sufficient proof of the competence of the proprietor-chef.
[Illustration: PORT DU CROUX--A MEDIEVAL WATCHTOWER AT NEVERS]
Nevers has a cathedral dating in part from the twelfth century, though
the elaborate tower with its host of sculptured prophets, apostles and
saints was built some three hundred years later. The most notable relic
of mediaevalism in the town is the queer old Port du Croux, a
fourteenth-century watch-tower which one time formed part of the
fortifications. It is a noble example of mediaeval defense--a tall
gateway tower with long lancet openings and two pointed turrets flanking
the steep, tile-covered roof. The ducal palace and the Hotel de Ville
are also interesting old-time structures, though neither is of great
historic importance. The history of Nevers is in sharp contrast with the
checkered career of its neighbor, Orleans, being quite uneventful and
prosaic. It is a quiet place to-day, its chief industry being the
potteries, which have been in existence some centuries.
The next day, thirty miles on the road to Autun, we experience our first
break-down in eighteen thousand miles of motoring in Europe--that is, a
break-down that means we must abandon the car for the time. Near the
little village of Tamnay-Chatillon an axle-rod breaks and a new one must
be made before we can proceed. Our objective point, Dijon, is the
nearest place where we will be likely to find facilities for repair and
we resolve to go thither by train. We have been so delayed that
train-time is past and we shall have to pass the night at the village
inn. It is extremely annoying at the time, though in retrospect we are
glad of our experience with at least one very small country road-house
in France. The inn people spare no effort to make us as comfortable as
possible and we have had many worse meals in good-sized cities than is
served to us this evening. Our beds, though apparently clean, are not
very restful, but we are too weary to be excessively critical. The next
morning, leaving the crippled car in the stable-yard, we take the train
for Dijon. The Captain carries the broken axle-rod as a pattern and soon
after our arrival a workman is shaping a new one from a steel bar. And
in this connection I might remark that we found the average French
mechanic quick and intelligent, with almost an intuitive understanding
of a piece of machinery. Our job proves slower than we anticipated; the
work can be done by only one man at a time and it is not completed
before midnight of the following day.
In the meanwhile we have established ourselves at the Grand Hotel de la
Cloche, a pretentious--and, as it proves, a very expensive
stopping-place. We have large, well-furnished rooms which afford an
outlook upon a small park fronting the hotel. Our enforced leisure
allows us considerably more time to look about Dijon than we have been
giving to such towns and we endeavor to make the most of it. The town is
one of the military centers of France, being defended by no fewer than
eight detached forts, and we see numerous companies of soldiers on the
streets.
The museum, we are assured, is the greatest "object of interest" in the
city and, indeed, it comes up to the claims made for it. The municipal
art gallery contains possibly the best provincial collection of
paintings in France--an endless array of pictures of priceless value,
representing the greatest names of French art. There is also a splendid
showing of sculpture, occupying five separate rooms. The marble tombs of
Philip the Brave and John the Fearless, old-time dukes of Burgundy, are
wonderful creations. They were originally in the Church of Chartreuse,
destroyed in 1793, when the tombs were removed to the cathedral in a
somewhat damaged condition. They were later placed in the museum and
restored as nearly as possible to their original state. Both have a
multitude of marble statuettes, every one a distinct artistic
study--some representing mourners for the deceased--and each little face
has some peculiar and characteristic expression of grief. The strong
contrast of white and black marbles is relieved by judicious gilding
and, altogether, we count these the most elaborate and artistic
mediaeval tombs we have seen, if we except the Percy monument at Beverly
in England. The museum also has an important archaeological collection,
including a number of historical relics found in the vicinity, for the
city dates back to Roman times. The showing of coins, gems, vases,
ivory, cabinets and jewelry would do credit to any metropolitan museum.
And all this in a town of but seventy-five thousand people--which shows
how far the French municipalities have advanced in such matters. Dijon
is no exception in this regard, though other cities of the class may not
quite equal this collection, which I have described in merest outline.