away in this old town,--is the house attributed to Tristan l'Hermite,
who held the unenviable position of hangman-in-chief to His Majesty,
King Louis. There is no foundation for this tradition, which probably
owes its origin to a knotted rope and some hooks on the wall, which are
sufficiently suggestive of hanging. This sculptured cord, or rope, not
unlike the emblem of Anne of Brittany, may have been placed here in her
honor, or in that of one of her ladies in waiting, as she frequently
urged her attendants to adopt her device of the knotted rope, whose
derivation has never been quite understood.
"However," as Miss Cassandra says, "we are not here in search of
associations of the head executioner of Louis or of those of his royal
master," and so we were free to enjoy the beauty of this fourteenth
century house, which is quite picturesque enough to do without
associations of any kind, with its substantial walls in which brick and
stone are so happily combined, its graceful arcades, lovely spiral
pilasters and richly carved Renaissance doorways. We noticed the words
_Priez Dieu Pur_ carved over a window in the courtyard which, M. La Tour
says, is thought to be an anagram upon the name of Pierre de Puy, who
owned the house in 1495. In the wide paved courtyard is an ancient stone
well, near which is a spiral stairway leading to a loggia, from which we
had a fine view of the picturesque gables and roofs of the old town, and
beyond of the broad river shimmering in the sun, and still farther away
of a line of low hills crowned with white villas.
Noticing the Tour de Guise as it stood out against the blue sky, M. La
Tour told us an interesting tale about this tower, which is about all
that is left of the royal palace built here or added to by Henry II, who
was also hereditary Count of Anjou, and did much building and road
making in the Touraine of his day.
The young Prince de Joinville, son of the Duke de Guise, who for some
reason was imprisoned here after the murder of his father at Blois, was
permitted to attend mass on Assumption Day, 1591. Tasting the sweets of
freedom in this brief hour of respite, the Prince took his courage in
his two hands and suddenly decided to make a bold dash for liberty.
Laying a wager with his guards that he could run upstairs again faster
than they, he reached his room first, bolted the door and seizing a
cord, or rope, which had been brought to him by his laundress, he made
it fast to the window, slipped out and dropped fifteen feet. With shots
whistling all about him he flew around the tower to the Faubourg de la
Riche, where he leaped upon the back of the first horse that he saw; the
saddle turned and threw him and a soldier came up suddenly and accosted
him. Fortunately, the soldier proved, by some happy chance, to be a
Leaguer, who gave him a fresh mount, and soon the Prince had put many
miles between himself and his pursuers. Ever since, the tower has borne
the name of the young De Guise who so cleverly escaped from it.
Wednesday evening.
We experienced what our Puritan ancestors would have called a "fearful
joy" during our afternoon at Loches, for anything more horrible than the
dungeons above ground and under it would be difficult to imagine. I
shall spare you a full description of them, as I refused to descend into
the darkest depths to see the worst of them, and Walter is probably
writing Allen a full-length account of them,--iron cages, hooks, rings,
and all the other contrivances of cruelty. Loches, however, is not all
cells and dungeons, as the chateau is beautifully situated upon a
headland above the Indre, and the gray castle rising above the terraces,
with its many towers, tourelles, and charming pointed windows, presents
a picturesque as well as a formidable appearance. Our way lay by winding
roads and between high walls. We thought ourselves fortunate to make
this steep circuitous ascent in a coach; but once within the _enceinte_
of the castle we were on a level and felt as if we were walking through
the streets of a little village. Many small white houses, with pretty
gardens of blooming plants, lie below the fortress on one side, in sharp
contrast to the frowning dungeons of Fulk Nerra and Louis XI which
overshadow them.
The great square mass of Fulk Nerra's keep stood out dark against the
blue of the sky to-day; this with the Tour Neuf and the Tour Ronde are
said to be the "most beautiful of all the dungeons of France," as if a
dungeon could ever be beautiful! And it was Louis XI, that expert and
past master in cruelty, who is said to have "perfected these prisons,"
which only needed the iron cage, designed to suit the King's good
pleasure, to complete their horror.
The invention of the iron cage has been accredited to Jean la Balue,
Bishop of Angers, and also to the Bishop of Verdun. Perhaps both of
these devout churchmen had a hand in the work, as fate, with a dash of
irony, and the fine impartiality of the mother who whipped both of her
boys because she could not find out which one had eaten the plums,
clapped them both into iron cages. Louis XI was in these instances the
willing agent of avenging fate. Cardinal la Balue survived the sorrows
of his iron cage for eleven years, "much longer than might have been
expected," as Mr. Henry James says, "from this extraordinary mixture of
seclusion and exposure."
The historian, Philip de Commines, described these cages as "Rigorous
prisons plated with iron both within and without with horrible iron
works, eight foote square and one foote more than a man's height. He
that first devised them was the Bishop of Verdun, who forthwith was
himself put into the first that was made, where he remained fourteen
years."
Louis was so enchanted with this fiendish device that he longed to put
all his state prisoners into iron cages. We are glad to know that when
he recommended this treatment to the Admiral of France for one of his
captives of high degree, the jailer replied, with a spirit and
independence to which the tyrant was little wont, "That if that was the
King's idea of how a prisoner should be kept he might take charge of
this one himself."
"De Commines knew all about the horrors of the iron cage," said M. La
Tour, "for he was himself imprisoned in one of them by the Lady of
Beaujeu, who was Regent of France after the death of her father, Louis
XI. De Commines joined the Duke of Orleans in a conspiracy against the
government of the Regent, which was discovered. He was seized and also
the Duke, afterwards Louis XII. Louis himself was imprisoned by his
cousin of Beaujeu and was set free by her brother Charles."
The guide pointed out the iron cage in which Philip de Commines was
confined, which was horrible enough to answer to his description. Some
of the lines inscribed on the walls of the round tower were doubtless
composed by De Commines, among these a wise saying in Latin which Walter
deciphered with difficulty and thus freely translated:
"I have regretted that I have spoken; but never that I remained silent."
A most ironical invitation, we read in the corridor leading to the
tower: "Entres, Messieurs, ches le Roy Nostre Mestre."
One poor captive, who showed a cheerful desire to make the best of his
lot, inscribed upon the wall of his cell these lines, which Lydia copied
for you:
Malgre les ennuis d'une longue souffrance,
Et le cruel destin dont je subis la loy,
Il est encor des biens pour moy,
Le tendre amour et la douce esperance.
In the Martelet where we went down many steps, we saw the room in which
Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan, was imprisoned by Louis XII for eight
years, and the little sundial that he made on the only spot on the wall
that the sun could strike. He also whiled away the weary hours of
captivity by painting frescoes on the walls, which are still to be seen.
By such devices Ludovico probably saved his reason, but his health broke
down and when relief came he seems to have died of joy, or from the
sudden shock of coming out into the world again. A sad end was this to a
life that had begun in happiness and prosperity and that was crowned by
a felicitous marriage with beautiful Beatrice d'Este.
"And why did Louis, the Father of his people, the good King Louis,
imprison Ludovico all those years?" asked Miss Cassandra.
"King Louis, although the best and wisest King that France had known for
many a day, was but mortal," said M. La Tour, twisting his moustache as
if somewhat puzzled by our Quaker lady's direct question, "and having a
sound claim to the Duchy of Milan, through his grandmother Valentine
Visconti, he proceeded to make it good."
"By ousting Ludovico, and his lovely wife, Beatrice, who was really far
too good for him; but then most of the women were too good for their
husbands in those days," said Miss Cassandra.
"Fortunately," said M. La Tour, "the Duchess of Milan had died two years
before Ludovico's capture and so was spared the misery of knowing that
her husband was a prisoner in France."
We were glad to emerge from the dismal dungeons into the light and air
by stepping out upon a terrace, from which we had a fine view of the
chateau and the Collegiate Church of St. Ours adjoining it.
The Chateau of Loches, once a fortress guarding the Roman highway, later
belonged to the house of Anjou and was for some years handed about by
French and English owners. As might have been expected, this fortress
was given away by John Lackland (whose name sounds very odd, done into
French, as Jean-Sans-Terre), but was regained by his brother, Richard
Coeur de Lion. It was finally sold to St. Louis, and the chateau,
begun by Charles VII, was completed by Louis XII.
The tower of Agnes Sorel, with its garden terrace, is the most charming
part of the chateau, crowning, as it does, a great rock on the south
side which overlooks the town.
Charles seems to have met the enchanting Agnes while at Loches, whither
she had come in the train of the Countess of Anjou, whose mission to
France was to gain the liberty of her husband, King Rene, who had been
taken prisoner in battle, and was confined in the Tour de Bar, which we
saw at Dijon.
From all accounts Agnes appears to have been a creature of ravishing
beauty and great charm, as the ancient chroniclers describe her with a
complexion of lilies and roses, a mouth formed by the graces, brilliant
eyes, whose vivacity was tempered by an expression of winning sweetness,
and a tall and graceful form. In addition to her personal attraction,
this "Dame de Beaulte" seems to have had a sweet temper, a ready wit,
and judgment far beyond that of her royal lover. According to many
historians, Agnes was the good angel of the King's life, as Joan, the
inspired Maid, had been in a still darker period of his reign. Brantome
relates a story of the favorite's clever and ingenious method of rousing
Charles from his apathy and selfish pursuit of pleasure while the
English, under the Duke of Bedford, were ravaging his kingdom. "It had
been foretold in her childhood, by an astrologer," said Agnes, "that she
should be beloved by one of the bravest and most valiant kings in
Christendom," adding, with fine sarcasm, "that when Charles had paid her
the compliment of loving her she believed him to be, in truth, this
valorous king of whom she had heard, but now seeing him so indifferent
to his duty in resisting King Henry, who was capturing so many towns
under his very nose, she realized that she was deceived and that this
valorous king must be the English sovereign, whom she had better seek,
as he evidently was the one meant by the astrologer."
[Illustration: AGNES SOREL]
"Brantome was a bit out here," said M. La Tour, "as Henry V. had died
some years before and his son Henry VI was only six or seven years of
age at this time, and it was the Duke of Bedford who was ravaging the
fair fields of France and taking the King's towns _a sa barbe_. However,
that is only a detail as you Americans say, and there must be some
foundation for Brantome's story of Agnes having aroused the King to
activity by her cleverness and spirit, for more than one historian
gives her the credit of this good work for Charles and for France. You
remember that Brantome says that these words of the _belle des belles_
so touched the heart of the King that he wept, took courage, quitted the
chase, and was so valiant and so fortunate that he was able to drive the
English from his kingdom."
"It is a charming little tale," said Lydia, "and I, for one, do not
propose to question it. Brantome may have allowed his imagination to run
away with him; but the good influence of Agnes must have been
acknowledged in her own time and later, or Francis I would not have
written of her:
"'Plus de louange son amour s'y merite
Etant cause de France recouvrer!'"
"And I, for my part, don't believe a word of it!" said Miss Cassandra
emphatically. "No ordinary girl, no matter how handsome she might be,
would sit up and talk like that to a great King. I call it downright
impertinent; she wasn't even a titled lady, much less a princess."
For a Quaker, Miss Cassandra certainly has a great respect for worldly
honors and titles, and Lydia took pleasure in reminding her that Joan
of Arc was only a peasant girl of Domremy, and yet she dared to speak
boldly to Charles, her King.
"That was quite different, my dear," said Miss Cassandra. "Joan was an
_honest_ maid to begin with, and then she was raised quite above her
station by her spiritual manifestations, and she had what the Friends
call a concern."
Then noticing the puzzled expression on M. La Tour's face, she
explained: "I mean something on her mind and conscience with regard to
the King and the redemption of France, what you would call a mission."
"Yes," Lydia added, "_une mission_ is the best translation of the word
that I can think of; but it does not give the full meaning of the
expression 'to have a concern,'" and as he still looked puzzled, she
added, comfortingly: "You need not wonder, Monsieur, that you do not
quite understand what my aunt means, for born and bred in Quakerdom as I
have been, I never feel that I grasp the full spiritual significance of
the expression as the older Friends use it."
For some years Charles seems to have been under the spell of the beauty
and charm of Agnes Sorel, upon whom he bestowed honors, titles, and
lands, the Chateau of Loches among other estates. From her false dream
of happiness the royal favorite was rudely awakened by the Dauphin,
afterwards Louis XI, who entered the room where the Queen's ladies in
waiting were seated, and marching up to Agnes in a violent rage, spoke
to her in the most contemptuous language, struck her on the cheek, it is
said, and gave her to understand that she had no right to be at the
court.
"Which," as Miss Cassandra remarks, "was only too true, although the
Dauphin, even at this early age, had enough sins of his own to look
after, without undertaking to set his father's house in order."
Agnes took to heart the Dauphin's cruel words, and resisting all the
solicitations of the King, parted from him and retired to a small house
in the town of Loches, where she lived for five years, devoting herself
to penitence and good works.
"It seems," said Miss Cassandra, "that repentance and sorrow for sin was
the particular business of the women in those days; when the men were
in trouble they generally went a hunting."
M. La Tour, being a Frenchman, evidently considers this a quite proper
arrangement, although he reminded Miss Cassandra that the wicked Fulk
Nerra, "your Angevin ancestor," as he calls him, "expiated for his sins
with great rigor in the Holy Land, as he dragged himself, half naked,
through the streets of Jerusalem, while a servant walked on each side
scourging him."
After living quietly at Loches for five years Agnes one day received a
message that greatly disturbed her and caused her to set forth with all
haste for Paris. Arrived there, and learning that the King was at
Jumieges for a few days' rest after the pacification of Normandy, she
repaired thither and had a long interview with him. As Agnes left the
King she said to one of her friends that she "had come to save the King
from a great danger." Four hours later she was suddenly seized with
excruciating pain and died soon after. It was thought by many persons
that the former royal favorite was poisoned by the Dauphin; but this has
never been proved.
The body of Agnes Sorel was, according to her own request, transported
to Loches and buried in the choir of the Collegiate Church of St. Ours,
where it rested for many years. The beautiful tomb was first placed in
the church, but was later removed to the tower where it stands to-day
and where Agnes still reigns in beauty. Upon a sarcophagus of black
marble is a reclining figure, modest and seemly, the hands folded upon
the breast, two lambs guarding the feet, while two angels support the
cushion upon which rests the lovely head of _la belle des belles_, whose
face in life is said to have had the bloom of flowers in the springtime.
The inscription upon the tomb is:
"Here lies the noble Damoyselle Agnes Seurelle, in her life time Lady of
Beaulte, of Roquesserie, of Issouldun, of Vernon-sur-Seine. Kind and
pitiful to all men, she gave liberally of her goods to the Church and to
the poor. She died the ninth day of February of the Year of Grace 1449.
Pray for her soul. Amen."
You may remember that at the Abbey of Jumieges we saw a richly carved
sarcophagus which contains the heart of Agnes Sorel. M. La Tour says
that she left a legacy to Jumieges, with the request that her heart
should be buried in the abbey. At one time a beautiful kneeling figure
of Agnes, offering her heart to the Virgin in supplication, surmounted
the black marble sarcophagus; but this was destroyed, when and how it is
not known.
In one of the oldest parts of the chateau are the bedroom and oratory of
Anne of Brittany. From these rooms there is a lovely view of the Indre
and of the old town with its steep gables, crenelated roofs, and
picturesque chimneys. The walls of the little oratory are richly
decorated with exquisite carvings of the Queen's devices, the tasseled
cord and the ermine, which even a coat of whitewash has not deprived of
their beauty.
M. La Tour, whom Lydia has dubbed "our H.B.R." handy-book of reference,
tells us that the origin of Queen Anne's favorite device is so far back
in history that it is somewhat mythical. The ermine of which she was so
proud is said to have come from her ancestress, Madame Inoge, wife of
Brutus and daughter of Pindarus the Trojan. It appears that during a
hunting expedition an ermine was pursued by the dogs of King Brutus. The
poor little creature took refuge in the lap of Inoge, who saved it from
death, fed it for a long time and adopted an ermine as her badge.
We had spent so much time in the Chateau Royale and in the various
dungeons that there was little space left for a visit to the very
remarkable Church of St. Ours adjoining the chateau, which, as Viollet
le Duc says, has a remarkable and savage beauty of its own. After seeing
what is left of the girdle of the Virgin, which the verger thought it
very important that we should see, we spent what time we had left in
gazing up at the interesting corbeling of the nave and the two hollow,
stone pyramids that form its roof.
Miss Cassandra and I flatly refused to descend into the depths below,
although the verger with a lighted candle stood ready to conduct us into
a subterranean chapel, which was, at one time, connected with the
chateau. We had seen quite enough of underground places for one day, and
were glad to pass on into the more livable portion of the castle, which
is now inhabited by the sous-prefect of the district, and from thence
into the open, where we stopped to rest under the wide-spreading
chestnut tree planted here by Francis I so many years since.
M. La Tour reminds us, among other associations of Loches, that the
Seigneur de Saint Vallier, the father of Diane de Poitiers, whose
footsteps we followed at Chenonceaux, was once imprisoned here. Even the
powerful influence of Diane scarcely gained her father's pardon from
Francis I. His sentence had been pronounced and he was mounting the
steps of the scaffold when the reprieve came.
With our minds filled with the varied and vivid associations of Loches,
we left the castle enclosure and from without the walls we had a fine
view of the massive dungeons, the Chateau Royal, with the beautiful
tower of Agnes Sorel, and the charming terrace beside it. Through many
crooked, winding lanes and postern doors M. La Tour conducted us by the
gate of the Cordeliers, with its odd fifteenth century turrets, to a
neat little garden cafe. Here we refreshed ourselves with tea and some
very dainty little cakes that are a _specialite de la maison_, while
Walter gracefully mounted his hobby, which, as you have doubtless
gathered ere this, is the faithfulness of Alexander Dumas to history.
"What need had Dumas to call upon his imagination when the court life of
France, under the Valois and Bourbons, furnished all the wonders of the
Thousand and One Nights?" Walter really becomes eloquent when launched
upon his favorite subject, and indeed we all are, more or less, under
the spell of Dumas and Balzac. With the heroes and heroines of Alexandre
Dumas, we have spent so many delightful hours that Touraine seems, in a
way, to belong to them. It would not surprise us very much to have
Porthos, Athos, and Aramis gallop up behind our carriage and demand our
passports, or best of all to see that good soldier and perfect
gentleman, D'Artagnan, standing before us with sword unsheathed ready to
cut and come again; but always it must be remembered quite as reckless
of his own precious skin as of that of his enemies.
"I wonder if we shall ever again see their like upon the pages of
romance," said Walter turning to M. La Tour.
"Good soldiers and brave gentlemen, better and braver than the royal
masters whom they served so faithfully!" said M. La Tour, raising his
hand in the delightfully dramatic fashion of the French as if proposing
a toast: "May their memories long linger in Touraine and the Blesois,
which they have glorified by their deeds of valor!"
What do you think we have been doing this evening? Still under the spell
of Loches and its weird associations, we have been trying to turn the
French verse, which Lydia copied for you, into metrical English. It
seemed so strange that we four twentieth century Americans and one
Franco-American should be translating the pathetic little verse of the
poor prisoner who,
"_Malgre les ennuis d'une longue souffrance,_"
kept up a brave heart and counted his blessings.
We all tried our hand at it, Miss Cassandra, M. La Tour and all. I send
you the verse that seemed to our umpire the best. One of the charming
Connecticut ladies, whom we met at Amboise, called upon us this evening
and was kind enough to act as umpire in our little war of wits. She was
so polite as to say that all of the translations were so good that it
was difficult to choose between them, but this is the one that she
thought most in the spirit of the original lines:
Despite the weary hours of pain
A cruel fate ordains for me,
Some dear possessions yet there be;
Sweet hope and tender love remain.
It is for you to guess who wrote this verse. One thing I tell you to
help you out or to puzzle you still more with your guessing, M. La Tour
wrote one of the verses; his knowledge of English construction is
remarkable.[A]
This young Frenchman, who is usually politely reticent about his own
affairs, although so generously expansive in communicating his historic
and legendary lore, confided to Walter, this evening, in the intimacy of
smoking together, that his mother is an American. This accounts for his
perfect and idiomatic English and for his knowledge of our cities. He
talks about Washington, Philadelphia, New York, and Boston as if he had
seen them and yet he has never crossed the water, being like most
Frenchmen entirely satisfied with what his own country affords him.
Since Walter has learned that M. La Tour is half American, he begs to be
allowed to call him Mr. La Tour. Foreign handles and titles, as he
expresses it, do not sit easily upon his tongue.
The Frenchman laughed good naturedly at this and said, "Yes, yes, M.
Leonard, call me what you will. Philippe is my name; why not Philippe?"