old chateau of Plessis-les-Tours, which Louis built and fortified to
suit his fancy and his fears, for great and powerful as he was he seems
to have been a most timid mortal. Of the "hidden pitfalls, snares and
gins" with which the old King surrounded his castle we could not expect
to find a trace, but we were disappointed to see nothing left of the
three external battlemented walls or the three gates and dungeon-keep,
which Sir Walter Scott described, the latter rising "like a black
Ethiopian giant high into the air."
With our Quentin Durward in our hands, we read of Plessis-les-Tours as
the novelist pictured it for us in the light of romance. Of course Sir
Walter never saw this chateau, but like many other places that he was
not able to visit, it was described to him by his friend and neighbor,
Mr. James Skene, Laird of Rubislaw, who while travelling in France kept
an accurate diary, enlivened by a number of clever drawings, all of
which he placed at the novelist's disposal. From this journal, says
Lockhart, Sir Walter took the substance of the original introduction to
Quentin Durward. As Mr. James Skene is said to have given his friend
most accurate descriptions of the buildings and grounds, it is safe to
conclude that the chateau has been entirely remodelled since the days
when the young Scottish archer listened to the voice of the Countess
Isabelle, as she sang to the accompaniment of her lute while he acted as
sentinel in the "spacious latticed gallery" of the chateau. It is
needless to say that we failed to discover the spacious gallery or the
maze of stairs, vaults, and galleries above and under ground which are
described as leading to it. Nor did we see any traces of the
fleur-de-lis, ermines, and porcupines which are said to have adorned the
walls at a later date. Indeed the empty, unfurnished rooms and halls,
guiltless of paintings or tapestries, were so dismal that we hurried
through them. As if to add an additional note of discord to the
inharmonious interior, a "vaccination museum" has been established in
one of the ancient rooms. We stopped a moment to look at the numerous
caricatures of the new method of preventing the ravages of smallpox;
one, that especially entertained Walter, represented the medical faculty
as a donkey in glasses charged upon by vaccine in the form of a furious
cow.
We hoped to find in the grounds some compensation for the cheerlessness
of the interior of the castle; but here again we were doomed to
disappointment. The vast lawn and extensive parterres, which caused the
park of Plessis-les-Tours to be spoken of as the Garden of France, have
long since disappeared, and all that we could find was a grass-grown
yard with some neglected flower beds, surrounded by a hedge of fusane, a
kind of laurel with a small white flower that grows here in great
profusion. We made an effort to see, or to fancy that we saw, an
underground passage that was pointed out to us as that which once led to
the dungeon upon whose stone foundation was placed the iron cage in
which Cardinal la Balue was confined. Of the series of fosses which once
enclosed the chateau we found some remains, but of the solid ramparts
flanked by towers, where a band of archers were once posted by night and
day, and of the bristling _chevaux-de-frise_ nothing was to be seen.
Walter wishes you to tell Allen that the greatest disappointment of all
is that there is no oak forest anywhere near Plessis from whose boughs
the victims of Louis were wont to hang "like so many acorns," one of
Scott's bits of realism that appealed to his boyish imagination.
We were glad to turn our backs upon the modern brick building which
occupies the site of the ancient stronghold of Plessis and to drive home
by a farm called La Rabatiere, whose fifteenth century building is said
to have been the manor house of Olivier le Daim, familiarly called
Olivier le Diable, the barber-minister of Louis. Our driver, who is
somewhat of an historian, and like a loyal Tournageau is proud of the
associations of his town, good and bad alike, was delighted to show us
this old home of Olivier who was, he informed us, the executioner of his
master's enemies of high degree, while Tristan l'Hermite attended to
those of less distinction, having, as Louis warned Quentin, "For him
whose tongue wagged too freely an amulet for the throat which never
failed to work a certain cure." The house of Tristan, our _cocher_ told
us, we should find in one of the narrow streets of the old part of
Tours, which we have not yet explored.
VI
LANGEAIS AND AZAY-LE-RIDEAU
PENSION B----, TOURS, September 3rd.
WHEN we started toward Langeais this afternoon we were pleased to think
that our way was much the same as that which Felix took in search of his
"Lily of the Valley." The Loire lay before us just as he described
it,--"a long watery ribbon which glistens in the sun between two green
banks, the rows of poplars which deck this vale of love with moving
tracery, the oak woods reaching forward between the vineyards on the
hillsides which are rounded by the river into constant variety, the soft
outlines crossing each other and fading to the horizon."
[Illustration: MEDIAEVAL STAIRWAY, CHATEAU OF LUYNES]
We passed by Luynes, whose steep hillside steps we shall mount some day
to see the fine view of the river and valley from the outer walls and
terrace of the chateau, as its doors are said to be inhospitable to
those who wish to inspect the interior. This afternoon Langeais and
Azay-le-Rideau are beckoning us, although we were tempted to stop for a
nearer view of the strange Pile de Cinq Mars, which is, we are told, an
unsolved architectural puzzle. The most probable explanation is that
this lofty tower was once part of a signalling system, by beacon fires,
which flamed messages along the valley, past Luynes to the Lantern of
Rochecorbon and as far eastward as Amboise.
Although there are the ruins of a castle of the same name quite near the
Pile de Cinq Mars, the home of Henry d'Effiat, Marquis de Cinq Mars,
seems to have been at Chaumont, where Alfred de Vigny placed the opening
scenes of his novel.
To compensate for our disappointing morning at Plessis-les-Tours, we had
an entirely satisfactory afternoon at Langeais, where we beheld a
veritable fortress of ancient times. At a first glance we were as much
interested in the little gray town of Langeais, which is charmingly
situated on the right bank of the Loire, as in the chateau itself, whose
facade is gloomy and austere, a true mediaeval fortress, "with moat,
drawbridge, and portcullis still in working order," as Walter expresses
it. As we stood on the stone steps at the entrance between the great
frowning towers waiting for the portcullis to be raised, we felt as if
we might be in a Scott or Dumas novel, especially as our Quaker lady
repeated in her own dramatic fashion:
". . . . And darest thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms--what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."
Lord Marmion turn'd,--well was his need,--
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung,
The ponderous gate behind him rung;
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO LANGEAIS, WITH DRAWBRIDGE]
Fortunately for us the portcullis rose instead of falling, and so, with
plumes unscathed, we passed through the doorway, and as if to add to the
_vraisemblance_ of the situation and make us feel quite mediaeval,
soldiers stood on each side of the entrance, apparently on guard, and it
was not until after we had entered the chateau that we discovered
them to be visitors like ourselves.
If the facade of Langeais, with its severe simplicity and solidity, its
great stone towers, massive walls, _chemin de ronde_ and machiolated
cornices, gave us an impression of power and majesty, we found that it
also had a smiling face turned toward the hill and the lovely gardens.
Here the windows open upon a lawn with turf as green and velvety as that
of England, and parterres of flowers laid out in all manner of
geometrical figures. From a court basking in sunshine, two beautiful
Renaissance doors lead into the castle. Through one of them we passed
into a small room in which the inevitable postcards and souvenirs were
sold by a pretty little dark-eyed French woman, who acted as our guide
through the castle. We begged her to stand near the vine-decked doorway
to have her photograph taken, which she did with cheerful alacrity. Some
soldiers, who were buying souvenirs, stepped through the doorway just in
time to come into the picture, their red uniforms adding a delightful
touch of color as they stood out against the gray walls of the chateau.
It was a charming scene which we hoped to be able to send you, but
alas! a cloud passed over the sun, and this, with the dark stone
background, made too dull a setting, and by the time the sun was out
again our guide was in request to take a party of tourists through the
chateau, ourselves among them. Langeais is so popular during this busy
touring season that hours and turns are strictly observed.
One of the soldiers is evidently the _cher ami_ of our pretty Eloisa,
who waved her little hand to him as she sent a coquettish glance from
her fine eyes in his direction, and threw him a kiss, after which she
applied herself to her task as cicerone, conducting us from room to
room, enlarging upon the history and associations of the chateau, and
explaining to us that of the original castle, built by Foulques Nerra,
or "Fulk the Black," in 990, only the ruinous donjon keep is to be seen
beyond the gardens. The present chateau is of much later date, and was
built by Jean Bourre, comptroller of the finances for Normandy under
Louis XI, who was granted letters patent of nobility and the captaincy
of Langeais about 1465. After listening to thrilling tales of the
barbarous cruelty of Fulk the Black, Count of Anjou, who had his first
wife burned at the stake and made himself very disagreeable in other
ways, as our guide naively remarked in French of the purest Touraine
brand, Lydia exclaimed, "The more perfect the French, the easier it is
to understand!"
"It is all the same to me, good or bad," groaned Walter in reply to
Lydia's Ollendorf phrase, uttering quite audible animadversions against
foreign languages in general and the French in particular, which our
guide fortunately did not comprehend, especially as he concluded with a
crushing comparison, "Why are not all the guides like that wonderful
little woman at the Castle of Chillon, who told her story in English,
French, and German with equal fluency and facility?"
"Why, indeed!" echoed Miss Cassandra, who being a fellow sufferer is
most sympathetic.
It certainly is exasperating to a degree to have the interesting history
and traditions given forth in a language that one does not understand,
and with such rapidity that if those who are able to grasp the meaning
attempt to translate they quite lose the thread of the discourse and are
left far behind in the story.
As we passed through the great halls and spacious rooms with timbered
ceilings, tapestried walls, and beautifully tiled floors, we were
impressed with the combination of mediaeval strength and homelike
comfort, especially in the living rooms and bedrooms. The graceful mural
decorations of flowers and cherries in the Salon des Fleurs are in
strong contrast with the massive woodwork and the heavy carved
furniture, and yet the ensemble is quite harmonious. In the guard room
we noticed a fine frieze in which the arms of Anne of Brittany are
interwoven with her motto, "_Potius Mori quam Foedari!_"
From this and much more in the line of careful restoration and rich
decoration and furnishing, you may believe that the interior of Langeais
has undergone a transformation, at the hands of several owners of the
chateau, since the days when Mr. Henry James spoke of its apartments as
"not of first-class interest." M. Christophe Baron and Monsieur and
Madame Jacques Siegfried have, while preserving the distinctive
characteristics of an ancient fortress, made of Langeais an entirely
livable chateau.
Just here we are reminded by our historians that we Anglo-Saxons have a
link far back in our own history with Langeais and the cruel Fulk, Duke
of Anjou, as one of his descendants married Matilda, daughter of Henry
I, of England, and their grandson was Richard Coeur de Lion, who was
Count of Touraine and Lord of Langeais as well as King of England.
In the beautiful long salon, with its wonderful sixteenth century
tapestries and handsomely carved Spanish choir stalls, our guide became
especially eloquent, telling us that this was the room in which Charles
VIII and Anne de Bretagne were married, the inlaid table in the centre
being that upon which the marriage contract was signed.
"What is the little black-eyed woman talking about?" asked Miss
Cassandra, in a most pathetic tone. Fortunately, our cicerone gave us
more time in this room than in the others, and as we stood by the
windows which look out upon the court and gardens, a blaze of color in
the September sunshine, Lydia and I tried to explain about the very
remarkable marriage solemnized in this chateau between the heiress of
Brittany and the young King of France.
Odd as royal marriages usually are, this was especially melodramatic, as
the royal lover seems to have set forth to meet the lady of his choice
with a sword in one hand and a wedding ring in the other.
The hand of the young Duchess of Brittany was naturally sought after by
many princes, who looked with longing eyes upon her rich inheritance, in
addition to which, as Brantome says, she was renowned for her beauty and
grace, which latter was not impaired by the fact that one leg was
shorter than the other. She was also learned, according to the learning
of her day, and clever, which circumstances probably weighed lighter
than vanity when put in the scale against the wealth of the Duchy of
Brittany. Among the various pretendants to the hand of the Duchess was
Louis, Duke of Orleans, who as next in succession to his cousin Charles
was a suitor quite worthy of the hand of this high-born lady. Feats of
valor had been performed by Louis in Brittany earlier in his career,
which of course reached the ears of Anne, who like every woman of spirit
admired a hero, when lo! misfortune of misfortunes, he was taken
prisoner at the battle of St. Aubin, where he fought bravely at the head
of his infantry. This capture must have been a sad blow to the hopes of
the young Duke of Orleans, as Maximilian, Duke of Austria, promptly
stepped in and claimed the hand of the Breton heiress; but even this
wooing was not destined to prosper, as Charles VIII, who had just
succeeded to the throne of France, suddenly announced that he was the
proper person to wed the Duchess Anne and her possessions, and promptly
breaking his engagement with Margaret of Austria, set forth upon his
war-like wooing. She, poor girl, would probably have preferred any one
of her suitors to the boy of nineteen or twenty, misshapen and ignorant,
says a chronicler of the time, and so feeble in body that his father,
despairing of his holding the throne, had arranged a marriage between
the next heir, this same Duke of Orleans, and his daughter, Jeanne of
France. The young Duchess, an heiress in her own right, and possessed of
a decided will of her own, as appeared later, was singularly hampered in
the choice of a consort, several eligible suitors being separated from
her by the armies of Charles, who, closely besieging the town of Rennes,
demanded her hand at the point of the sword. Thus wooed, Anne
reluctantly consented to become Queen of France, and was secretly
betrothed to Charles at Rennes.
If the betrothal of Charles and Anne was accomplished with scant
ceremony, their marriage at Langeais was celebrated in due form. The
bride, accompanied by a distinguished suite, is described, as she
arrived at the chateau upon her palfrey, wearing a rich travelling
costume of cloth and velvet, trimmed with one hundred and thirty-nine
sable skins. Her wedding dress of cloth of gold was even more sumptuous,
as it was adorned with one hundred and sixty sable skins. Fortunately
for the comfort of the wearer, the wedding was in December, and in these
stone buildings, destitute of adequate heating arrangements, fur
garments must have been particularly comfortable. The nuptial
benediction was pronounced by the Bishop of Angers, probably in a chapel
which was formerly in the southwest wing of the chateau, and in the
presence of the Prince of Orange, the Duke of Bourbon, the Chancellor of
France and other nobles of high degree, among them the Duke of Orleans,
afterwards Louis XII, who was destined to become the second husband of
Anne. One of the articles of the marriage contract signed in this room
at Langeais was that if Charles should die without issue Anne should
marry the next heir to the crown, thus uniting Brittany indissolubly
with France.
Brantome described the fourteen-year-old bride as pretty, with black
eyes, well-marked eyebrows, black hair, fresh complexion and a dimpled
chin, but as Lydia says, one cannot always trust Brantome, as he painted
Catherine de Medici whom he beheld with his mortal eyes in all the glory
of the lily and rose, and later, when he saw Queen Elizabeth in London,
he wrote of her as beautiful and of lofty bearing. It is quite evident
that Brantome's eyes were bedazzled by the glitter of royalty, or was it
the glitter of royal gold?
"Well, whether or not Anne was beautiful, it is a comfort to have her
safely married in the midst of so much confusion and warfare," said Miss
Cassandra, with the satisfied air of a mother who has just made an
eligible marriage for her daughter.
"But we have not done with her yet," exclaimed Lydia. "We shall meet her
and her ermine tails and tasseled ropes in every chateau of the Loire,
and at Amboise we shall go a step further in her history, and only
reach the last chapter at Blois."
[Illustration: CAFE RABELAIS OPPOSITE CHATEAU OF LANGEAIS]
From the mediaeval fortress, with its wealth of French and English
history that Lydia and our guide poured into our willing ears, we
crossed the Rue Gambetta to the little Cafe Rabelais, opposite the
entrance to the chateau, where we spent a cheerful _quart d'heure_ over
cups of tea, and classic buns that are temptingly displayed in the
window. Although this genial reformed monk, as Walter is pleased to call
Rabelais, was born at Chinon, he seems to have lived at Langeais at two
different periods of his wandering and eventful life, Guillaume, Sieur
de Langeais, having given him a cottage near the chateau.
Having come to Langeais by train we engaged a hack to convey us to
Azay-le-Rideau, a drive of about six miles. As we drove over a long
bridge that crosses the Loire, we had another view of the chateau, with
its three massive towers, many chimneys, and of the wide shining river
that flows beside it, bordered by tall poplars and dotted with green
islets. Our drive was through a level farming land, where men and women
were at work cutting grass and turning over the long rows of yellow
flax which were drying in the sun. Here again we saw many women with the
large baskets or _hottes_ on their backs, as if to remind us that the
burden-bearers are not all of Italy, for the women of France work quite
as hard as the men, more constantly it would seem, if we may judge by
the number of men who are to be seen loafing about the little inns and
_cabarets_.
Across the wide, low-lying fields and pasture lands, we could see the
long line of foliage that marks the forest of Chambord. All these great
country palaces of the kings and nobles of France were comparatively
near each other, "quite within visiting distance," as Miss Cassandra
says. As we walked along the avenue of horse-chestnut trees, and over
the little bridge that spans the Indre, we felt that no site could have
been better chosen for the building of a palace of pleasure than this.
With a background of forest trees, a river flowing around it, the stone
walls and bridges draped with a brilliant crimson curtain of American
ivy, the Chateau of Azay-le-Rideau justifies Balzac's enthusiastic
description: "A diamond with a thousand facets, with the Indre for a
setting and perched on piles buried in flowers." Yet this gay palace,
like most of the chateaux of the Loire, has arisen upon the foundations
of a fortress, and its odd name was given it in honor of a certain
Hughes Ridel or Rideau, who in the thirteenth century built a castle on
an island to defend the passage of the Indre, the position being an
important one strategically. When our old Dijon friend, Jean Sans-Peur,
came this way in 1417, he took care to place a garrison of several
hundred men at Azay. These Burgundian soldiers, having a high opinion of
the strength of the castle and of their own prowess, undertook to jeer
at the Dauphin, afterwards Charles VII, as he passed by on his way from
Chinon to Tours, upon which he laid siege to Azay and captured and meted
out summary vengeance upon those who had mocked at and insulted him. The
story told to us sounds, as Miss Cassandra says, like a chapter from the
Chronicles or the Book of Kings, for although a great bear did not come
out of the woods and devour those wicked mockers, they were hanged,
every one, their captain was beheaded and the castle razed to the
ground.
Upon the piles of the old fortress the Chateau of Azay arose to please
the fancy of a certain Grilles Berthold, a relative of the Bohier who
built the Chateau of Chenonceaux, and like him a minister of Finance.
Built upon an island, the slow flowing Indre forms a natural moat around
the castle, or as Balzac expresses it more picturesquely, "This most
charming and elaborate of the chateaux of beautiful Touraine ever bathes
itself in the Indre, like a princely galley adorned with lace-like
pavilions and windows, and with pretty soldiers on its weathercocks,
turning, like all soldiers, whichever way the wind blows." The lace-like
effect that Balzac speaks of evidently refers to the exquisite carving
on the walls and around the windows, and upon the graceful corner towers
of the chateau. Here, over the driveway and in other places, are the
salamander of Francis I and the ermine of his wife, Claude of Brittany,
who died before the chateau was completed. Francis lived to use and
enjoy Azay in the hunting season, as did other sovereigns.
The architect, whose name seems to have been lost sight of amid much
discussion and some chicanery with regard to the possession of the
chateau, was a wise man in his day and instead of attempting to unite
the feudal fortress and the hunting seat, as Le Nepveu was doing at
Chambord, he was content to make of Azay-le-Rideau a palace of pleasure.
Indeed, he seems to have allowed his fancy free play in the construction
of this chateau, with the result that he has made of it a dwelling place
of great beauty, richly decorated but never overloaded with ornament.
Even the chimney tops are broidered over with graceful designs and
covered with a fine basket work in metal.
[Illustration: CHATEAU OF AZAY-LE-RIDEAU, EAST FACADE]
A true gem of the French Renaissance is Azay-le-Rideau, so the learned
in architecture tell us, and yet enough of the old fortress construction
has been preserved to add strength and compactness to the fairy-like
beauty of this chateau.
Through the handsome double doorway above which the salamander of
Francis breathes forth its device, "_Nutrisco et extingo_," we passed
into the beautiful hall and up the grand staircase, with its sculptured
vaults of stone, rich beyond compare, adorned with medallions of royal
faces and decorations of fruits, flowers, and heraldic emblems. Miss
Cassandra, being somewhat fatigued after our ramble through Langeais,
sat down upon the steps to enjoy at leisure the delicate beauty of the
ornamentation of the stairway, declaring that she was quite ready to
take up her abode here, as this chateau fulfilled all the requirements
of a pleasant country home, and after reading Madame Waddington's book
she had always wished to try chateau life in France.