RAPID MOTION--BEAUMONT--RACES AND DASHES--CADOUIN AND ITS
CLOISTERS--THE ROUTE TO TULLE
_April 7th._--We are late in starting from Marmande. Jean has just sped
by with the auto, waving his hand in some sort of explanation. However,
time is nothing on this trip and when we are _en route_ the world is so
beautiful that one soon forgets any irritation which the unavoidable
delay has occasioned.
Nature has opened another eye during the night--all the valleys are
clothed in that tender green which one associates with France, the
fruit trees have suddenly put forth all their beauty and the landscape
is radiant with the glory of white and pink blossoms. Almost every
hill is crowned with the tower of some ancient windmill, whose arms
have vanished long since; old châteaux and churches preside in stately
fashion over quaint villages. Jean sings as we roll over the white
roads and I ask him why. "Why, Monsieur! but the world is beautiful, it
is spring, and I am young and a boy." Surely, Jean, sufficient reason
for joy with any breathing mortal and it is well you appreciate that
which never comes but once and goes so quickly.
We are moving rapidly, for us, forty miles an hour for four hours. Yama
is the time keeper and announces our record from his throne in the
rear amongst the baggage. His excitement was most intense when just
now we passed in a whirl over a black hen. The feathers flew in all
directions, but when last seen the hen had rejoined her friends none
the worse for her encounter.
Can the naturalists inform me why all animals on the approach of a
train or auto will, if possible, cross the track? For instance, that
hen left the safety and seclusion of a neighbouring dung heap and
did her best to throw dust in our eyes. One can have no regret for a
creature that will deliberately run such risks, but when an old dog is
killed doing his duty, while his lazy master sleeps, one's regret is
great.
The ancient town of Lauzun with a grand château and church are passed,
and shortly thereafter, a tire gives up the ghost and we stop for
repairs. We have expected it for some time as it is the one that
bothered in starting. However, new ones having reached us at Pau, it is
only a matter of a few moments' delay.
_En route_ once more, we leave the meadows and mount to a more sterile
region, stopping at Beaumont for luncheon. The inn is certainly not in
the habit of receiving many strangers,--it is the dirtiest place we
have encountered and I wonder what the meal will be. The table shows
the wreck of a former feast which "Madame" with a dirty napkin sweeps
onto the floor. But the vegetable soup is hot and good, followed by
some sort of game, of which I eat and question not. Then comes a _pâté
de foie gras_ made in this section and after that some cold mutton
done up with onions and some fried fish, of all of which I eat. Coffee
in a big glass with cognac follows and "Madame" even then wants me to
partake of some other hot meat which a fat cook brings up smoking.
But there is room for no more if I would not go to sleep. I can hear
the people in the streets talking about Yama. The fat cook is greatly
excited; never having seen a Jap before, she is surprised that he
is not a monkey. She thinks she would rather have him little than
big,--enough is as good as a feast.
Beaumont is one of those quaint old walled towns long since forgotten
of the world. It has its old church and gateway, the latter once taken
by the English. Its houses project over the sidewalks like those of
Chester, but life has left it long ago, and we pass onward and away.
The ride all the afternoon is a delight, the roads are as fine as ever,
and the air is cool and fresh. Our route lies over the hills and at
last in a long descent through beautiful valleys.
Much of the last hour or two Jean shuts off all the power and we coast
like the wind down the floor-like roads. Many a dog joins in the race
and one kept pace with us for some hundreds of yards. I laid ten francs
on the dog but there were no takers. Another poor beast met instant
death. We were going at a tremendous speed down hill, when he rushed
from a doorway straight at the wheels and we passed over him like a
flash. I looked back, but he never moved.
Both "Madame" and her cook at Beaumont insisted that we stop at Cadouin
and visit an old cloister there, which we promised to do, and on
entering the town while its people are basking in the sun of this quiet
day of rest we pass the ancient church and are directed by an old dame,
who is washing her pans at the town pump, to a door in the rear whereby
we enter an ancient kitchen garden, and wandering amongst its cabbages
and sweet peas, find three portly priests who greet us smilingly. One
conducts us to the ruined cloister, now a mass of broken carvings,
tottering pillars and sad looking saints, around and over which nature
has thrown a beautiful veil of trailing vines and flowers. Yonder saint
is embowered in morning-glories, while red poppies spring from the soil
in the centre where the dead sleep on and on.
The whole is charming and one is taken far back into the past
and reminded of the present only by the distant puffing of one's
automobile. The garrulous old priest tells his story, but the place
is too enchanting to listen to details. However, he pays no attention
to my distraction; he has his story to tell and will not be gainsaid.
Once out again into the garden I press a coin into his palm, which,
glancing to see if the other priests have observed my act and will
insist upon a division, he quickly pockets, assuring me that it is for
the poor only that he accepts. Surely yes, father, for the poor only. I
fully understand, but mentally I add that in this case charity begins
at home. As we roll away, the smiling fathers stand watching us, six
fat hands reposing upon three fat stomachs within which the succulent
vegetable growing here but yesterday and the chickens which lately
strutted these walks sleep side by side, but the end is peace.
About four this afternoon, our auto stopped for no reason that I could
see. Jean insists that he was not sure of the route, but the only
other way ran into a church of no interest. However, as we stopped,
there came from an open doorway a very pretty woman. I happened to
glance at Jean's face and found it flaming red. Off came his cap and
he seized the dame by both hands. The confab is not for me; so I do
not listen but I do look. Presently Jean says that the lady would be
pleased if we would stop and refresh ourselves. He looks sheepish as
he puts the question. Really what does he take me for, does he think I
am going to delay my journey for an hour or so that he may flirt with
what I suspect is an old sweetheart? He tells me that her husband is
fatigued and is upstairs, also that he is a client of his. (Just what
sort of clients do chauffeurs have?) But I am obdurate and we move
on. Then Jean acknowledges that he has known the lady when both were
younger,--all of which his face told me half an hour ago. It is very
evident that Yama has also sized up the situation, his remarks are to
the point.
That Jean was disappointed is proven by the movements of the car, which
are jerky and uneven all the afternoon, until we enter ancient Tulle,
which, like Carlsbad, is down in a gully with the river flowing through
its centre. Tulle is well off the beaten track, and but few autos come
this way, though by so doing they would pass over one of the most
delightful roads in France. It has not the appearance of a place of
importance though full of life and bustle and boasting some twenty
thousand inhabitants.
The evening shadows are falling as we enter its streets and all the
people are abroad, while the cafés glitter with the life so dear to the
French. As we pause a moment in the great square, the stately spire
of the cathedral rises before us, backed by the fantastic old houses,
piling up tier on tier and all sharply outlined against a lilac sky
where the crescent of the new moon gleams faintly. But I am too tired
with our rushing ride to examine the town to-night and so seek the
quiet of my room at the Hôtel Moderne, and rest until dinner is served,
though on the whole I think I should prefer to go to bed than to eat.