PAU AND THE LIFE THERE--DELIGHTFUL ROADS--ANCIENT ORTHEZ--MADAME
AND HER HOTEL--THE CHÂTEAU OF BIDACHE AND ITS HISTORY
Our ride to Pau is down the banks of the Gave de Pau, past quaint
towns and churches and many mineral baths. Near noon, that well known
watering-place of Southern France comes into view, her famous terrace
rising high over the river; crowned by a line of hotels and villas,
and with the ancient castle, the birthplace of Henry IV, rising
majestically at its further end. In the valley rushes the Gave and
beyond the foot-hills the higher Pyrenees rise tier on tier to the
snows and clouds. The prospect is enchanting.
I should imagine that one might become very fond of Pau. It is a
quaint old city, delightfully placid, and its promenade like one great
proscenium box with God's theatre of the mountains holding perpetual
performance before you, and most of your time will be passed on that
terrace watching the lights and shadows as they chase each other past
the many mountain peaks into far-off valleys leading into Spain. You
will find yourself quoting _Lucile_ on the slightest provocation, and
will become romantic if you remain too long. The window of my room in
the Hôtel de France,--a good hostelry by the way,--overlooked terrace,
valley, and mountains, and I found myself hanging out of it in a most
dangerous fashion at all hours of the day and night, until sleep and
the murmuring river drove me to bed.
The lover of golf will find in Pau, I am told, the best links in
Europe. The hunter may follow the paper fox any day and the drives
must be endless and all beautiful. Yet I fancy the stranger in Pau has
little time to spend on them,--the social life being more attractive.
It seems to be a pleasant existence, not too strenuous, and composed of
pleasant people. The usual run of tourist does not come here, which is
greatly in its favour.
Its château, which has been judiciously restored, holds many beautiful
rooms and much of interest within its wall, but I shall not describe so
well known a building.
Monday, April 3d.
The day of our departure opens cloudy with threatening rain and I am
in doubt as to going forward. However it may clear by ten, and as Jean
has been "summoned" for fast driving and is now in court, we must wait
at all events. I do not know why they have selected Jean for a victim.
We are not of the great racing community and never have gone more than
thirty-eight miles an hour. Perhaps it is because of the killing
of the poor old dog, or maybe because of the old lady who climbed a
tree,--then again that porker may have entered protest at our too close
attentions. However, it will be but a small fine if anything. Jean
returns disgusted. It was all because of a "spurt" a month ago between
Nice and Monte Carlo when Mr. E. had the auto. They made no move during
the weeks in Nice but tracked him by his number all over our crooked
course from Nice here.
We are finally off after having bidden mine host of the Hôtel de France
_au revoir_, with thanks for the pleasant days passed in his excellent
establishment and having insulted the little fat porter by asking him
if he is not a German,--an insult wiped out by a franc. We roll off
through the streets of this ancient capital and for a dozen kilometers
fairly skim over the long white road, when an appearing sign-post
shows Jean that he is off his route and we must perforce return until
we find a cross-road that will put us on our way once more, a course
which proves to be one of the longest stretches of straight road which
we have encountered and for mile after mile the auto fairly flies. It
is cloudy and there is no dust, so the sensation is delightful. It is
marvellous how quickly the nerves become used to this rapid motion, so
that one minds it no more than in a railway train, nor is the speed
realized until the auto begins to slow down. One certainly loses all
fear and ceases to hold on for dear life, and also is no more alarmed
for the safety of men and beasts,--not that auto cars instill a desire
for murder, but one certainly does become a species of Nero, and had
that gentleman possessed an auto, Rome would not have been forced to
endure so many quiet days under his rule as history relates. There
would at least have been greater variety, and the game of nine pins,
with useless Christians as the pins and autos as the balls, would have
been much in vogue.
We halt in the town of Orthez for luncheon and I note an ancient tower
which will be visited after the inner man has become satisfied. The
Grand Hôtel is another of those comfortable little inns with which
France abounds and the smiling landlady assured me that when she saw us
rush by she knew we would return, for there was no more comfortable inn
than hers and no more agreeable landlady than herself in all France.
How impossible it would be in America to find in our small towns such
accommodations. Here is a scrupulously clean house and I am served with
a most appetising luncheon. Two kinds of native wines, a good soup,
shirred eggs, an entrée, a nice piece of steak with potatoes, a pastry,
cheese, fruit and coffee, all good, and for three francs.
Orthez, the ancient capital of Béarn, is a very quaint old town. Its
tower is a remnant of the château of the Counts of Béarn and its
streets, bordered by ancient dwellings with high slate roofs, belong
to long past days. The world would never have returned to these old
towns of France but for the autos, and under their passing all the
post-houses are opening their eyes once more, like old gentlemen
aroused from a nap, and the horns of the modern machine are not unlike
in sound the ancient post-horns.
[Illustration: THE BRIDGE OVER THE GAVE AT ORTHEZ
By permission of Messrs. Lévy]
After luncheon I mount the hill to the tower, which I find in stately
seclusion amidst a grove of trees and still surrounded by its moat full
of stagnant water. I have it all to myself and the old stones seem
desirous of telling their store of legends from the days of chivalry.
The tower reminds me of Niddry, from whose windows the Scotch queen
gazed downward on her first day of freedom after Lochleven. Like Niddry
this is but an empty shell now, but the view from it is characteristic
of France. Long lines of white highways bordered by stately Lombardy
poplars, a smiling river wandering here and there, now through quiet
meadows and just there where it passes through Orthez, under an ancient
bridge with a tower in its centre. The steep roofs of the old town
cluster around the base of the castle hill and a tall church spire
points the way to heaven. On the green slopes of the hills are numerous
châteaux embowered in blossoming fruit trees, lilies bloom in the
stagnant moat of the castle, tall and fair, and some yellow flowers
yonder cast a cascade of gold over the delicate tracery of a ruined
archway.
Descending the hill, I express to Madame at the hotel my feelings
that she lives in an interesting old town. "Oui, Monsieur, mais très
triste." Surely, but places that have watched the passing of so many
centuries, with all their joys and sorrows, must seem sad.
Our ride during the afternoon is delightful, not by the direct route
to Bayonne but via Sauveterre and Bidache. As we approach the latter
place, a turn in the road brings in view a magnificent mansion, part
castle and part palace. As it rises majestically on its terrace above
the river it resembles Linlithgow, is as stately as Rheinfels, and,
like both, is all in ruins. An old peasant on the highway tells us that
many visitors go there and so Jean turns the auto into a shady lane
and drives past some old cottages, near one of which the custodian
stands smiling and is more than willing to go with us to yonder stately
mansion, through whose empty windows the birds are flying and over
whose walls the ivy tumbles in dark green masses. It is the property
of the Ducs de Gramont, though they seldom come here. We wander into
the court of honour, into the banquet hall, open now to all the winds
of heaven; stop a moment to gaze upon the majestic keep, and passing
on emerge upon the terrace from which another vision of the fair land
of France is spread before us. Seated here the old custodian tells
her story. "This is the Château de Bidache, Monsieur, et de Gramont."
It is not certainly known when it was founded but it was so long,
long ago that it seems to have been here since time was. It is known
to have existed in the eleventh century at which period its masters,
the Barons de Gramont, were in continual strife with their neighbors,
the Seigneurs d'Asqs and de Guiche, or uniting with them against the
neighbouring city of Bayonne or any other which offered the show of an
exciting encounter,--the necessary breath of life to the lords of those
dark ages. England and Navarre both claimed its allegiance and its
history has been the history of Navarre and France throughout all the
years.
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU OF BIDACHE
From a photograph]
One of the most adventurous of the lords of Bidache would appear to
have been Arnaud Guilhem II. de Gramont (1275). In wars with England,
Navarre, and Spain, he sustained two sieges in the Château which was
taken and burned. Then followed exile and departure for the Crusades,
and a return at sixty-nine years of age. His tomb in the church of
Villeneuve la Montarie was opened in 1860, when his long sword, casque,
and spurs of gold were found in good condition after a lapse of five
hundred and eighty-five years. He was but one of the many who made
Bidache the theatre of their lives.
The Château was reconstructed in 1530, upon what scale and in what
fashion you may see to-day even in its ruins.
In 1610, Louise Comtesse de Gramont, for an "intrigue galante",
was tried by her husband's order before the parliament of Bidache,
convicted, and executed. The endeavours of her father to save her, even
by the aid of the King of France, were without avail, though the Count
was later forced to grant her sepulchre in the tombs of his ancestors
where she was interred with much state and ceremony. On this condition
he was guaranteed relief from all attempts at revenge by the blood kin
of the unfortunate lady.
Mazarin was entertained here in great state when he returned from
negotiating the treaty of the Pyrenees; then the Château and all the
country round about was _en fête_ for days and Bidache was in the
heyday of its popularity.
Years of silence settled after that upon the Castle, during which in
the days of the great Louis this terrace, where I sit writing these
notes, was constructed. Whatever sorrow this Louis XIV. brought upon
France, the land certainly owes much of its beauty of architecture,
which still abides, to him. Not alone in the Royal palaces but in or
around almost every château of the land, one is sure to find something
beautiful of his day. This terrace redoubles the charm and stateliness
of Bidache, and when mortals lived within these walls it must have been
a continual joy; it is so to-day to all who come this way.
Most of the improvements in the private châteaux were accomplished
while the owners thereof suffered banishment from the court. Such was
the case here with the lord of Bidache during the reign of Louis XIV.
As usual another affair of love. To the terrace he added orangeries,
fountains, and vast stables,--the latter still exist,--and Bidache
reached the acme of its splendour in his day. Its library, placed on
the ground floor of the great tower, was lighted from above by a dome
more than thirty feet in diameter; below was a magnificent gallery of
paintings (all destroyed in the final conflagration save those which
had been taken to Paris) while the ground floor of the castle formed a
vast armory, full of ancient and modern weapons.
In the Revolution, the Château was not greatly disturbed and certainly
was not destroyed in that convulsion. It remained for a dishonest agent
to commence this work during the period of the emigration and for a
great conflagration on a night of 1796 to reduce the immense structure
in ten hours to the state in which we find it to-day. However, no
fire or storm can entirely destroy Bidache and as I wander through its
superb court of honour and gaze upon its mighty towers and walls there
is enough left, bowered as it is in curtains of ivy and many flowers,
to impress itself upon the memory for many a day, to be remembered
always as a thing of beauty, even after its death.
Turning reluctantly away, I bid the custodian farewell; she tells
me she is very old and will not be here if I return, "save yonder
where Monsieur can see the crosses on the hillside." I depart under
her benediction, and, while Jean is at work and the auto beginning
to breathe, I turn curiously to the present dwelling of the Duke of
Gramont.
He comes here every year and occupies this very unpretentious
structure just outside the park gates,--a long low, two-storied
house. There is certainly a satisfaction to him in knowing that he
has just claim to that stately ruin yonder with its history and its
wealth of associations, and he shows his good taste in not attempting
a restoration. Moving swiftly, the auto glides down a hill and off
and away across the valley, while I turn for one last glimpse of the
stately mansion, the Château de Bidache.