OUR DEPARTURE FROM NICE--THE ROAD TO AIX--THE CITY OF KING RENÉ
I had greatly desired to make a long auto tour, but being alone save
for Yama, my Jap servant, I had scarce the courage to start, so I
decided to go by train to Paris, and was in fact booked by that of
Saturday week. As I stand on the porch of the Hôtel des Anglais
gazing with regret at the flashing machines as they glide by, an old
acquaintance comes out and asks me to "take a spin in his," which I
gladly do, with the result that before I return to the hotel I have
engaged that same machine and driver by the month. So it is settled. I
offer the owner some payment in advance, but he waves it aside, "Any
friend of Mr. E. is all right." However, we shall see what we shall
see. I secure, as is wise, a written agreement to the effect that I
am to have the auto at the rate of six hundred dollars per month,
everything included except the board, lodging, and _pourboire_ of the
driver, also that I am in no way to be held responsible for any sort
of accident or breakage. This is necessary as otherwise one would
certainly be charged with every scratch.
So it is settled that we start two days hence and I have some
consultations with the chauffeur. Everything is arranged for an
extended tour through Southern France or wherever I will, and then
"Jean," the driver, says that the owner would like "half a month's pay
in advance." I thought that smile of the other day meant something. He
reminded me of Monsieur Blandois in _Little Dorrit_ whose "nose came
down over his mustache and whose mustache went up under his nose,"
but a pleasant man withal. Having disposed of my railway tickets and
forwarded my heavy luggage to Paris, and all being ready, we start,
stopping a moment to pay Monsieur half a month in advance. That is of
course as it should be. Off at last. Away over the beautiful Promenade
des Anglais we roll with all Nice glittering and gleaming a goodbye at
us, while the sea joins in in a soothing monotone. Our route leads over
the long Corniche road, "Autos de course" thunder by us at an appalling
speed, would we plod on at a modest gait of forty-five miles per hour.
A moment's pause at Cannes to say goodbye to a friend, and we are en
route once more. Cannes is beautiful, but agreeable only if one owns
a villa and knows the people. Hotel life there is desolate. It is the
Newport of this coast. Gorgeous yachts lie in its harbor, splendid
villas gleam amidst the olive trees, and the people are mostly English.
Here we leave the coast and sail,--that seems the best way to describe
our motion,--up into the hills of Provence until the olives vanish and
we are surrounded by the peaceful mountains, while the air is laden
with the balsam from the pines. We do not sight the sea again, but the
ride is glorious. The racing machines are now few and far between, so
one does not hold on for dear life and is not choked in dust,--one's
own dust never bothers.
The roads are simply superb, hard as a floor and magnificently made.
They appear to have been sprinkled with petroleum.
Towards evening as we are gliding into the peaceful land of Provence,
high on an adjacent peak stands a Madonna (which forces from Jean the
confession that he has not been a good Catholic). The setting sun turns
her crown into glittering gold and the sad green of the olive trees
into silver. The peasants' horses are plodding peacefully homeward,
with their tired masters sleeping soundly in the rumbling vans. It has
always been a desire of mine to visit Aix, but it seemed a sacrilege,
almost, to enter it in a train of cars. To-day, however, sailing
onward, soundless and with no sense of motion save that of gliding,
it is almost as though we are borne on wings until the first paving
stone of the city jostles us down to earth once more. But even so we
are spared the usual porters and omnibus and all the paraphernalia of
an hotel in the twentieth century, and moving up to the portals of the
quaint hôtel Nègre Coste, are welcomed by Madame in a black gown and a
white cap.
Here my first day in an auto comes to an end, and rising, I shake
myself, and, rubbing my eyes, step out, and instantly the auto, Jean,
and Yama vanish, and I stand,--almost wondering whether they have ever
been--gazing up at the statue of King René who died four hundred years
ago, and who seems to smile and hold out his bunch of grapes as he
welcomes me to Aix in his fair kingdom of Provence.
The voice of Madame recalls me from the royal presence, asking, "Is it
Monsieur's wish to have a chamber for himself and one for each of his
domestics?"
"Yes." (Jean might go to a cheap hotel, has even so suggested, but my
life is in his hands and I want good service, such as can come only
from good nature. Therefore Jean will stop in the house with me.)
This hôtel Nègre Coste has made no changes since before the great
Revolution, and I doubt not but that members of the Committee of Public
Safety or Revolutionary tribunals have entered this same door, nay,
slept in that same bed where I shall presently forget all about them.
It is my day now, theirs is done, and most of them have not even graves
alone, but rest in the public fosses.
From my window I look down upon the Cours Mirabeau, though it bore
no such name in his day. In this city King René lived and reigned in
peace, the centre of all the music and romance of this section and
apparently unaware of that werewolf Louis XI, awaiting just outside
for his death in order to seize the kingdom. The "Cours" is long and
narrow, with a promenade in its centre, the whole being sheltered by
double rows of plane trees cut square over the tops, and forming
beneath a long tunnel where the sunlight filters through the green
gloom of the leaves, as thick here as in Vallambrosa. At the head
of the Cours the statue of the king gazes downward upon the two old
moss-grown fountains, where all form and shape has long since been
lost in the passing years and plashing waters. To the music of one
just outside my window in the quaint little hotel, I sink to sleep and
dreams of King René and Margaret of Anjou intermingle with those of
wild rushes over long highways.
The morning sunlight shines brightly, and Jean would like to move on,
but Jean has not that sort of a man to deal with. The twentieth century
and the automobile must wait while I spend some hours in exploring this
quaint town, a decision of which Madame, mine hostess, approves, as she
smiles from a seat near the door where she sits knitting and watching
her hotel. Madame is old and knows many things, amongst them, that
"Monsieur would visit the Cathedral, it is ancient and very curious,
and is to be found far up by the first turn to the left."
Modern Aix holds some thirty thousand people, and to the great outer
world is but little known. One hears much of Aix-la-Chapelle and of
Aix-les-Bains, but little of Aix in Provence, yet to my thinking
it is more interesting than either of the others, certainly than
Aix-les-Bains, though the German city with its memories of Charlemagne
holds its own for interest intense and abiding.
[Illustration: CLOISTERS OF THE CATHEDRAL AT AIX
From a photograph]
The Cours Mirabeau divides the modern city from its ancient fellow,
and as I leave the hotel, I plunge at once into the dark and narrow
streets of the latter where in René's day the poets, troubadours, and
gallants held high revels. Aix was the home of politeness, the theatre
of the courts of love, which in the valley of the Rhone can never be
platonic--and there were held fêtes and tournaments, and life was all
a song. It is not always the well-known objects which attract one most
in these old mediæval towns but the quaint bits and corners, fountains
and monuments unnoted in any guide-book. Yonder stately façade was
surely the dwelling of some one of importance in the old days. To-day
it is occupied by many of a far different order. An arched portal
gives entrance to a courtyard with an old fountain. A stately façade
beautifully carved rises beyond; and through a distant archway one
catches a glimpse of a deserted garden where the trees form a wild
tangle around broken statues, and there is the murmur of water, but
the soul of the house has long since passed away. Perhaps in the days
of the terror those doors resounded to thunderous knocking while the
silence of the night and the peace of the house vanished forever at the
dread summons, "Open in the name of the nation," a sure bidding, in
those times, to the guillotine; and I doubt not that, with the courage
of their class, Monsieur le Marquis and Madame la Marquise went forth
to their doom calmly and with great dignity.
One could stand and dream forever in this town of old Provence, but
the boys are gathering in curiosity as to why I gaze at a spot that
has never attracted a passing interest in their minds. "No one save
Jacques the huckster lives there, why should he excite any attention?"
The faded gilding in the ceilings of the great salon visible through
the dusty window tells no tale of bygone splendour to the boys, no
picture of Watteau figures in high heels dancing around that broken god
Pan in the garden pass before their mental visions. To-day one shaft of
that old cart rests upon his flute and a blossoming plum tree casts its
white shower over his head, but his music is silent for ever.
[Illustration: CLOISTERS OF THE CATHEDRAL AT AIX
From a photograph]
In the square beyond stands the Hôtel de Ville which shelters in its
courtyard an excellent statue of Mirabeau, and just outside rises
one of the old towers of the city, now dedicated by a tablet to the
souls of those who have lost their lives for their country. A young
woman under its shadow tells me that I shall find the Cathedral just
beyond, and in company with the archiepiscopal palace and the little
university, there it stands in a square by itself. The Cathedral of
St. Sauveur is very ancient. As I enter, the whole interior rests in
silence save for the droning voice of some priest. Candles twinkle
before the many altars, and the sunlight filters through the trees
outside and the painted windows, casting wavering shadows down upon
the empty aisles and many tombs. In the nave one may see the portraits
of King René and his second wife Jeanne de Laval, and as you gaze upon
them, the picture of his life unrolls itself across your mental vision.
Born in the grim castle of Angers in 1409, René was married when but
twelve years of age and his eldest child came on earth when the father
was but eighteen. Eventually René, Duke of Bar and Lorraine, became
Duke of Anjou, Count of Provence, and King of the two Sicilies. Though
he held the last-named honour but eight years he never surrendered the
title. He was a friend of Agnes Sorel and of Joan of Arc, women much
more to his liking than his fierce daughter Margaret. René gave all his
love to this land of Provence where his palace stood intact--here in
Aix--until destroyed most wantonly in 1786. His progress thither was by
state barges up and down the rivers--on the Loire to Roanne and thence
over land to the Rhone at Lyons and so to Tarascon. Music and flowers,
sunshine and happiness seem to have been his portion, yet there was one
shadow--that of Louis XI. then the dauphin, whom he met for the first
time in the Castle of Tarascon. At Tarascon he instituted the Order of
the Crescent and held a fête which is remembered to this day. To his
credit it is recorded that he gave protection to Jacques Coeur, fleeing
from the ingratitude and treachery of Charles VII., and enabled him to
escape into Italy. Having already said farewell to France and Anjou,
René plainly saw the absorption of his beloved Provence by King Louis.
His picture--some say painted by himself--here in the Cathedral does
not impress one strongly. He was too old when it was done and while
interesting and beautiful in detail one does not linger long in its
contemplation. This cathedral was four hundred years old when René was
born and portions of it date far before that, being of Roman origin.
Especially is this the case in the baptistery whose superb columns
came from the temple of Apollo. The cloisters are quaint and most
interesting, and the temptation to linger is strong upon me, but time
presses and so I pass outward and down the queer streets to where Jean
solemnly seated in the Red Machine awaits my pleasure.
Yama has the luggage already packed in the auto when I reach the hotel
and we are shortly off, jumping instantly back, or rather forward, from
the fourteenth to the twentieth century. Madame smiles an adieu from
her seat by the door and keeps on knitting, as those women of France
have ever done through sunshine and sorrow, days of happiness and days
of blood.
As we speed away, Jean catches sight of the Madonna high up on the
mountain and heaves a great sigh, regret I suppose at the recollection
of all those neglected confessions.