ANCIENT BOURGES--ITS CATHEDRAL--HOUSE OF JACQUES COEUR--LOUIS
XI. AND THE HÔTEL LALLEMENT--THE HÔTEL CUJAS--THE RIDE TO
MEILLANT--ITS SUPERB CHÂTEAU--ITS LEGEND
Bourges, the ancient capital of Berry. The very name brings to the mind
visions of stately days, panoramas of mediæval France, and those who
come here will find the theatre of those times still intact. The great
cathedral around which every thing centres remains unchanged in all
its majesty; crooked streets, narrow and dark, yet in this sunshine
cheerful withal, wind off and away from it down into the old city. If
you take that one to your right you will find the house where Louis XI.
was born; or the one to the left will lead you straight to the palace
of "Jacques Coeur" as they call him; turn in any direction and these
old streets will show you houses and palaces of the long ago, smiling
down upon you or retiring in magnificent seclusion behind high walls.
You may here have, if you so desire it, memories of Julius Cæsar, as
he besieged this city, but the figures which flit across the shafts
of sunlight move in stately procession into the cathedral or steal
stealthily off into the shadows are to me those of the Maid, of the
weak Charles, of the generous Jacques,--or of the malign and terrible
Louis XI., the latter bent perhaps upon an urgent errand to poison his
father a little more in yonder Castle of Mehun on the river Yèvre.
[Illustration: THE SOUTH PORTAL OF THE CATHEDRAL AT BOURGES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
Bourges was evidently a Court City, a home of the aristocracy; even
to-day with its air of seclusion it impresses the beholder as very
much the fine gentleman. Your automobile clothes worry you, you feel
an inclination to return to your hotel and don silks and velvets, a
plumed hat and sword and high-heeled shoes, as you may be summoned into
the presence of the King to be questioned as to your purpose in coming
here and also about that strange and devilish machine which in old
times would have brought you to the stake promptly, unless you could
have first induced His Majesty to take a ride through the sunny lands
stretching out on all sides of the ancient city. After which Louis
would probably have locked you up in one of his cages and kept the
machine.
In these days of flying, many pass this way to whom the stones of
Bourges are dumb, but such is often the case. At Monte Carlo I met
the owner of a great machine, who stared at me in dumb amazement when
I asked him what he thought of Carcassonne. Actually he had not even
seen it,--had sped by under the very walls of that vision on the hill
and not known it was there,--remembered nothing save that he did not
like the hotel in the modern town. Likewise later in Tours, when I
asked one of the ancient faith, from America, what he thought of the
châteaux which make Touraine an open book which he who runs may read,
he replied that he would not give two dollars for the whole lot. He had
"left Biarritz at eight o'clock in the morning" and "would reach Paris
on record breaking time." _His_ machine "was the best on the road"--a
swish, and a swirl, a cloud of dust, a starting, and a getting there,
that was his idea of what automobile life should be, causing one to
regret that so many at home through lack of means can never see these
places save in dreams, while unstinted gold is thrown away upon those
who cannot appreciate them.
But all that has little to do with the ancient city of Bourges. It
is to-day a town of some fifty thousand inhabitants, and its modern
section holds a great arsenal and a gun foundry. Its streets are gay
with the uniforms of many soldiers; its cafés bubbling over with life.
Until the Maid delivered Orleans it was the capital of France. It
possessed a university upon whose rolls appeared the names of Calvin
and Cujas. It has been devastated by fire and sword, but I think its
darkest day must have been that upon which Louis XI. first saw the
light in yonder curious Hôtel Lallement; but let us pass on now and
visit first the cathedral, considered by these people to be the most
magnificent in France, and as one stands before its five great portals,
each crowned with superb carvings, while far above soar the flying
buttresses and great towers, the whole bathed in the mellow light of a
setting sun, it surely is majestic, most impressive, and while perhaps
not so perfect as Chartres it must delight the soul of an architect.
Its location is especially fine. It stands high and is approached by
long flights of steps up which the people are crowding for Vespers, to
which the mellow tones of the old bells are summoning the faithful. As
I enter and pass forward under the lofty arches, an ancient clock raps
out the passing hour with a cheery tone and the great organ floods the
silence with waves of melody. The church is especially rich in ancient
glass through which the sunlight filters in long streams of colour
touching here the living, bowed in prayer, and yonder an effigy of one
long since dead,--dead for the sake of the Cross and holy Jerusalem.
One is permitted to wander unattended wherever fancy dictates, which
is always a pleasure to the lover of these old shrines, and so one may
enter into their soul and spirit until the stones almost speak. Here
to-day it is quiet enough, back in the chapel of the Virgin behind the
high altar, where it would be dark but for the trembling lights before
the sacred image, and deserted, save for one old dame muttering her
petitions.
Gazing backward the majestic double aisles reach away until lost in
perspective and the roof of the nave in the fading light is so far
above one as almost to seem a portion of the sky. Kings, princes, and
people have passed by and left no mark, and the flying centuries have
added to the beauty of this sacred edifice. A subdued murmur with the
scraping of many chairs tells that the service is ended, and I pass
with the people out on the great square to the south, gay with spring
flowers and the brilliant scarlet of many uniforms. This is the hour
when Bourges takes its pleasure and all the phases of that life so
peculiar to France go on where once the walls of the city stood. That
black _caniche_ is taking excellent care of the baby in the wagon while
its nurse flirts with the soldier boy. Those two officers, gorgeous in
scarlet and gold, have so far made no impression upon those girls in
yonder window, while from the cathedral come the black-robed priests
to bask awhile in the sunshine of this world. The old dame in the
_kiosque_, after selling me many postal cards, and giving me many bits
of information about those around us but which I shall not repeat here,
assures me that I shall find the "most interesting house" of Jacques
Coeur far down yonder crooked street and that there is yet time to
inspect it before the day ends; so I wander on to where it stands, a
monument to the enterprise of one of the best of French citizens, also
a monument to the ingratitude of one of the poorest and weakest of
French kings.
[Illustration: THE PALACE OF JACQUES COEUR, AT BOURGES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
Jacques Coeur was a famous silversmith of vast wealth, to whom Charles
VII. applied for funds and who was taken at his word that "all that I
have is thine." Jealousy and the sense of obligation on the part of all
from the king down caused his destruction. He was accused of debasing
the coinage, and of poisoning Agnes of Sorel. Sentenced to death he was
saved by the Pope, and banished, and he finally died while leading
a naval expedition for the Pontiff against the Turks. In this little
Place you will pause a moment, ere you enter his still perfect palace,
to gaze upon his statue which stands facing the house. The countenance
is beautiful while stern, yet it possesses none of those attributes of
craft necessary to meet such enemies as are raised up only to envy and
jealousy. The house, as you see, shows a stately façade to the street
and stands unchanged to-day, having been spared in the great revolution
because of its history. One may even pull the same handle which jangles
the same bell hung there by Jacques Coeur when the Maid of Orleans was
alive.
His misfortunes made him immortal on earth and his generosity to
France has preserved his house to us, a quaint and curious structure
of the olden days. Note the courtyard and its curious carving, also
the ceilings of the guard-rooms shaped like inverted boats. The
reception-room of Jacques is now a court-room and where he gave all to
his country and received no justice in return, justice is administered
impartially, let us hope, to the French of to-day. After all, his
life was not a failure, as he is not forgotten, and the desire to be
remembered on this earth is, I think, greater than the desire to enter
heaven. Certainly, it is the source of all ambition.
Bourges, however, possesses another figure in history which is better
remembered by the world than that of Jacques, probably because
wickedness always carves more deeply than goodness upon the pages of
history and the life of a nation. Few in the world will remember who
Jacques Coeur was, none can ever forget the crafty King Louis XI. and
here in Bourges his sinister shadow was first cast athwart the life of
France, for here in the Hôtel Lallement he was born.
[Illustration: HÔTEL LALLEMENT AT BOURGES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
It is more fitting to inspect such a spot after dark, and, as the moon
shines brightly to-night, let us go. Leave the hotel and pass up the
second crooked street to your left, the Rue Lallement, and you will
find a queer old façade, with no evidence of life anywhere near it.
The street is so narrow that one can almost touch the houses on either
side and the moon can scarcely illumine the centre, much less the dark
corners.
A French officer, leaning from a casement, asks what I am looking for,
and tells me to pull the old bell handle. Doing so brings the custodian
who is surprised at a visit by night and suggests that daylight would
be better. "Not for _this_ house surely," and I insist upon entering.
I follow him across the quaint courtyard, which is alternately in deep
shadow or the intense light of the moon, where carved faces grin at us
as the wicked old king used to leer at his nobles. The house is not
large but it possesses some curious apartments. Note the little chapel
and the room near it, a good-sized chamber with heavy beams crossing
a sagging ceiling and holding a deep fire-place facing the door. Here
Louis was born to the delight of his father, Charles VII, who later on
starved himself to death in the neighbouring castle of Mehun through
fear of poison by this same son.
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU OF MEHUN NEAR BOURGES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
The old house is oppressed with these memories and the shadows are
deep upon it, while the stealthy foot-falls in the street without
might belong to the emissaries of that dreadful King. However, they
are those of the law-abiding citizens of the Republic in this year of
grace, 1905, and one may move without fear of any soul through the
ancient city, and if your interest takes you to the museum in the old
Hôtel Cujas, once the residence of the great Juris-consul, of that name
when the University existed here (from 1465 to 1793,) you will find
a statue of Louis, probably the best portrait extant, and you will
remember the evil face for long thereafter. This Hôtel Cujas holds much
that is curious, but it is itself of more interest than its contents,
and the streets of Bourges are lined with many interesting structures,
and those who pass by Bourges in the rushing mode of this twentieth
century pass by one of the gems of France.
The old dame in the _kiosque_ told me that I should not depart without
a visit to the neighbouring Château of Meillant, now the property of
the Duc de Mortemart. So, as it is but twenty-eight miles to the south,
we are off and away, delaying our onward progress until after luncheon.
The roads are superb and the morning divine. From Bourges to St. Amand
the highway is a straight line and, as we descend, it stretches away
until lost in perspective, a magnificent route for high speed, and
as Jean puts the auto to its best; we skim along scarcely seeming to
touch the earth,--hills rise and fall, and the motion is joyous, while
the spring winds sweep the dreams of dead kings off and away, leaving
only the smell of the grasses and blossoming fruit trees. We pause but
once, and then, as we pass one of the many curious groups to be found
on these highways. This time there are half a dozen mounted police
gorgeous in high boots and blue and black uniforms, gravely regarding
a travelling circus. The dancing bear, erect by his owner, solemnly
contemplates our passing, while the trained ape glares and evinces a
desire to go along. Indeed, I should not have been surprised to find
him enthroned in the place of Yama, left behind in Bourges, nor, if he
had donned Yama's blue glasses, could I have been certain which was
which, save that the ape possesses a more expressive countenance.
The Château of Meillant stands in a pleasant park on the road to St.
Amand-Mont-Rond. It is in perfect condition and is occupied by its
owner every summer. It is a Renaissance pile of great antiquity, the
original portions dating from 1100.
The illustration gives one a better idea of its exterior than any
description can furnish, while its interior shows a succession of rooms
splendid in themselves and full of objects of beauty and interest.
[Illustration: THE CHÂTEAU AT MEILLANT
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
The façade in the illustration is not the oldest part of the château.
Pass around to the other side and, overlooking the forest, you will
find the Tour des Sarasins, the only remaining portion of the feudal
castle and evidently forming at one period a part of the outer
fortifications. There is also the Ladies' Tower and the Tower of the
Chatelaine, but the most beautiful,--that shown in the illustration--is
the Tower of the Lion, with its great spiral staircase, by means
of which the traveller will enter the great drawing-room with its
gorgeously coloured and heavily raftered ceiling, and its fire-place,
with an immense mantel, that holds a gallery for musicians. The
château is not only magnificent in itself and superbly furnished, but
it is one that can be used and is used to live in. It is called the
most splendid of its kind in France, and as you mount to its towers and
look abroad, you discover that it stands in the heart of a vast forest,
twenty thousand acres in extent, so the custodian tells me, and, as we
sit perched high up among the grotesque gargoyles and strange carving
of the tower, he weaves the château's legend into this.
They say that this forest of Meillant is haunted by wolves of the
demon order, and that one of them holds the spirit of a woman, who
prowls these shadows nightly and pauses ever under the window of the
former chamber of the Chevalier Bayard, who once came here to see the
king and who did not respond to her advances,--in revenge for which
she inserted a dreadful bit, of fangs of iron, into his horse's mouth
before the battle of Milan, and so, nearly caused the death of Bayard
and the loss of that conflict. Pursuing him even to his death, in the
Battle of Pavia, he escaped her only by kissing the cross in his sword
hilt as his spirit ascended to God and she fled shrieking away into the
darkness. Now she must forever haunt the aisles of this ghostly forest
in the shape of a werewolf, and it is said that on misty, moonless
nights you may even see the fire of her eyes and hear her dismal howls.
As I listen to this legend I wonder whether she has not perchance taken
for to-day the shape of that ape which glared so malignantly at me on
that hill yonder as we came down here.
The world of travel does not come often to Meillant, but perhaps now
in the days of auto cars the traveller may discover it. If so he will
be amply repaid. I pause a moment as I depart to inspect an exquisite
little chapel in the court, and then pass away to the outer gate,
where I find a dark-eyed daughter of France sitting on the steps of my
machine. She has allowed Jean to bring it within the gates, and smiles
pleasantly at my recognition of her courtesy, and so we glide away into
the dim aisles of the forest on the return ride to Bourges.
[Illustration: THE GRAND SALON OF THE CHÂTEAU OF MEILLANT
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]